./v\-AAJAA_A 


POEMS   OF 
AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM 


THE    ESCAPE   OF   THE   CONSTITUTION. 
From  a  painting  by  George  Gibbs. 

(Seepage  8j.) 


fJatriattsm 


L-C  PAGE-  ^-COMPANY 
BOSTON  <3>  PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1898 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  AND  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


Fifth  Impression,  May,  1906 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATED  TO 

JBetoeg,  3a. 


M150502 


PREFATORY  NOTE 


SEVERAL  collections  of  patriotic  verse  have  been 
made,  but  none  hitherto,  so  far  as  I  know,  which 
carries  one  later  than  the  Civil  War.  The  present 
compilation  makes  pretensions  neither  to  complete- 
ness,—  a  large  volume  would  fail  to  include  every- 
thing of  merit  which  has  been  inspired  by  national 
themes,  —  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  to  a  fastidious  criti- 
cal standard.  Its  only  aim  is  that  of  presenting  anew 
the  noble  and  popular  songs  of  the  past,  long  en- 
deared to  the  country's  heart,  and  a  still  larger 
amount  of  stirring  contemporary  verse,  not  a  little 
of  which  has  already  begun  to  sing  itself  into  the 
memory  of  our  time. 

Without  the  kind  cooperation  of  Messrs.  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Company,  Messrs.  Lee  &  Shepard,  and 
a  few  other  publishers,  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  include  several  of  the  finest  selections.  My  thanks 
are  due  to  them  and  to  all  others  who  have  contrib- 
uted in  any  way  to  the  success  of  the  book. 


vii 


CONTENTS. 


PAGK 

To  the  American  Poet  . 

F.  L.  Knowles 

.           .        XV 

POEMS  OF 

PATRIOTISM. 

Ad  Bellonam        . 

F.  L.  Pollock  . 

.         14 

America          

S.  F.  Smith    . 

I 

Brave  at  Home  The 

Bugle  The    

fif  Irving                 . 

.           .        2O 

Columbia                .        . 

F   L.  Knowles 

*o 

Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean 

.            .         jy 

4 

Dirge  for  a  Soldier 

G.  H.  Boker    . 

12 

Flag,  The       

M.  W.  S. 

Flag,  The       

H.  L.  Flash    .  -      . 

.            .          10 

Flag  Goes  By,  The 

H.  H.  Bennett 

•      45 

Flag  That   Has   Never    Known 

!C.  L.  Benjamin 

Defeat,  The 

G.  D.  Suit  on 

.       16 

Hail  America.                         • 

F  L    Knowles 

.        .        6 

Harbor  Mine,  The       . 

F.  McK.  . 

•      Si 

In  Action       

26 

Old  Flag  Forever  .... 

F.  L.  Stanton 

.        .      36 

Salute  the  Flag      .... 

H.  C.  Bunner 

22 

Soldier  Boy  for  Me,  The      . 

S.  E.  Kiser    . 

.      49 

Soldier's  Heart,  A        ... 

55 

Somebody's  Darling 

Maria  La  Conte 

.      29 

Song  of  the  Battle-ships 

C.  F.  Harper  . 

.      47 

Song  of  the  Bullet 

/.  IV.  Riley     . 

.      41 

Song  of  the  Cannon,  The     . 

S.  W.  Foss      . 

.      42 

Song  of  Then  and  Now,  The 

J  '.  Barnes         .        . 

•       57 

Torpedo-boat,  The 

J  '.  Barnes         ,        . 

•      34 

Volunteer,  The      .... 

E.J.  Cutler     . 

•      44 

b 

CONTENTS. 


FACE 

War        

.    S.  W.  Foss      . 

.        23 

War-ship  of  1812,  The  . 

• 

*' 

THE  REVOLUTIONARY  WAR. 

Columbia       .        «        • 

.     T  Dwight 

•7-1 

Hail  Columbia' 

J  Hopkinson   .        • 

•           •         /o 

7Q 

Nathan  Hale 

.     P.M.  Finch     . 

*           •         /y 

.      .    67 

Old  Continentals,  The  . 

.     G.  H.  McMaster    . 

70 

Song  of  Marion's  Men  . 

.     W.  C.  Bryant 

.      .     76 

Warren's  Address 

.    J.  Pierfont      . 

.      .    65 

THE  WAR  OF   1812. 

Constitution's  Last  Fight,  The 

.    J.J.  Roche       . 

•      93 

Old  Ironsides 

O    W  Holmes 

g. 

Our  Navy       .... 

•        .      03 

Star  Spangled  Banner,  The 

.    F.  S.  Key 

.        .      85 

Yankee  Thunders 

- 

88 

THE   WAR 

WITH   MEXICO. 

Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The    . 

.     T.  CTHara      . 

•            ,112 

I3uena.  Vistzi  •         •                 • 

A    Pike    . 

•            •       IO4 

Defence  of  the  Alamo,  The  . 

.    J.  Miller  . 

.      99 

Monterey      .... 

.     C.  F.  Hoffman 

.            .       102 

THE  CIVIL  WAR. 

After  All        .... 

.     W.  Winter      . 

185 

Banner  of  the  Stars,  The 

.     R,  W.  Raymond    . 

.       140 

Battle-cry  of  Freedom,  The  . 

203 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 

.   J.  W.  Howe    . 

.       163 

Black  Regiment,  The  . 

.     G.  H.  Boker    . 

.      207 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The 

.    F.  M.  Finch    . 

.            .       I48 

Brother  Jonathan's  Lament 

. 

for  Sister  Caroline  . 

.    O.  W.  Holmes 

.       119 

Cavalry  Charge,  The    . 

.    B.  F.  Taylor  . 

.       20S 

Cavalry  Song 

.    E.  C.  Stedman 

•     *99 

Cumberland,  The  . 

.    H.  W.  Longfellow 

.     137 

CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Driving  Home  the  Cows 

K.P.Osgood.        .        . 

.      190 

Fancy  Shot,  The  . 

C.  D.  Shanly  . 

.     168 

Farragut        

W.  T.  Meredith      . 

.     172 

In  the  Hospital              .        . 

M  W  Howland 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg    . 

B.Harte 

•     170 

•    i75 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines 

E.  C.  Stedman 

.    182 

Keenan's  Charge  .... 

G.  P.  Lathrop                . 

ICA 

H.  Peterson     , 

•       *  3^ 

.     16* 

Marching  Along    . 

W.  B.  Bradbury    . 

•     *ui> 

.  i46 

Marching  Still       . 

M.  Irving 

.      201 

Marching  Through  Georgia  . 

H.  C.  Work    .        . 

.       159 

Men  of  the  North  and  West 

R.  H,  Stoddard     . 

.       122 

Music  in  Camp      .... 

J.  R.  Thompson      .         . 

•     '93 

No  More  Words    . 

J?   Lushington        .        . 

I2J. 

O  Captain  !  My  Captain  !      . 

W.  Whitman 

•       1^4 

.     161 

Picket  Guard,  The 

E.  L.  Beers     . 

o     180 

Reveille 

B  Harte 

Roll-call 

N  G  Shepherd 

•     *35 

Sheridan's  Ride 

T  B  Read 

•     133 

187 

Smallest  of  the  Drums,  The 

J.  Buckhant     . 

•          XOy 

.   151 

Spring  at  the  Capital    . 

E.A.Allen    . 

.   130 

Stripes  and  the  Stars,  The    . 

E.  D.  Proctor 

.  128 

Three  Hundred  Thousand  More 

James  Gibbons 

.   197 

Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp 

G.  F.  Root 

.   144 

Troop-ship  Sails  The           .        . 

R.  W.  Chambers    . 

.     126 

When  this  Cruel  War  is  Over      . 

C,  C.  Sawyer  .        .        . 

.   142 

THE  WAR 

WITH    SPAIN. 

An  American  to  His  Mother 

384 

And  Joe  Went      . 

355 

Answering  to  Roll-call 

F.  L.  Stanton 

.     *i5 

Awakening  of  Uncle  Sam,  The    . 

S.  W.  Foss      . 

•    345 

Battle-ship  and  Torpedo-boat 

J.W.M. 

o    239 

Beneath  the  Flag  .... 

257 

Britannia  to  Columbia  . 

A.Austin 

.    310 

Call  to  the  Colors,  The 

A-  Gutterman         .        . 
G.  T.  Ferris  . 

.    297 

CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Chickamauga  — 1898     .        .        .  312 

Cuba J.B.  Hope       .  .  .  .226 

Cuba /.  Gardner      .  .  .  .228 

Cuba  —  1897 H.  Bashford  .  .  .  .230 

Cuba— 1898 H.R.Vynnt.  .  .  .231 

Cuba  Libre /.  Miller  .        .<  .  .  .335 

Cuba's  Appeal       .        .        .        .     C.  S.  Rice        .  .  .  .347 

Cut  the  Cables       .        .        .        .    R.  B,  Wilson  .  .  .  .394 

Dewey,  Admiral    .        .        .        .    F.  A .  Marshall  .  .  .342 

Dewey  at  Manila .        .        .        .    R.  U.Johnson  .  .  .    378 

Dewey  in  Manila  Bay  .        .        .    R.  V.  Risley   .  .  .  .370 

Dies  Irae 307 

Dream  of  the  Spanish  Admiral, 

The S.  Dorman      .  .  .  .329 

Eagle's  Song,  The        .        .        .    R.  Mansfield  .  .  .  .327 
Eight  Volunteers  .        .        .        .    L.  C.  Bailey    ....    413 

Enlisted E.C.HaU 365 

Fall  In ! F.  N.  Scott      .  .  .  .401 

For  Cuba R.M.  Bell       .  .  .  .245 

Gathering,  The  .  .  .  .  H.  B.  Swett  .  .  .  .234 
Greeting  from  England  .  .  405 
Guardsman,  The  .  .  .  .  F.  X.  Finnegan  .  .  .  262 
Heroic  Deed,  The  .  .  .  G.  D.  Emery  .  .  .  .278 
His  New  Suit  .  .  .  .  S.  E.  Kiser  .  .  .  .386 
Hobson  and  His  Men  .  .  .  E.  F.  Burns  ....  407 
Hold  Dot  Fort  for  Ve  Vas  Com- 
ing   H,  Von  Dunkerfoodle  .  .  284 

Hymn  of  Our  Armies,  A       .        .     O.  C.  A  uringer  .  .  .    242 

In  Days  Like  These     .        .        .     T.  H.  Stacy    .  .  .  .321 

In  the  Time  of  Strife    .        .        .    F.  L.  Stanton  .  .  .304 

Joined  the  Blues  .        .        .        .   J.  L.  Roonty   .  .  .  .349 

Just  One  Signal     ....  331 

King  Coal  to  Uncle  Sam      .        .    E.  F.  Burns    .  .  .  .358 

Maine,  The G.  Dichter      .  .  .  .317 

Maine's  Men,  The        ...  221 

Manila  Bay H.E.W.,Jr,  .  .  .    351 

Martyrs  of  the  Maine,  The  .        .    R.  Hughes      .  .  .  .305 

Men  Behind  the  Guns,  The          .   J,J.  Rooney     .  .  .  .367 

xii 


CONTENTS. 


"Mene,  Menc,  Tekel,  Upharsin" 
Message,  A    

M.  Cawein      . 
P.B  

PAGE 
•      398 

Nemesis         

C,  H.  Crandall      . 

•      323 

New  Beacons  Set          ... 

J.J.  Rooney     . 

.      217 

New  Memorial  Day,  The     . 

A  .  B.  Paine    . 

•    374 

New  Toreador,  The      . 

253 

Old  Artillerist,  The 

M.  Nicholson  . 

•    403 

On  the  Eve  of  War 

D.  Dandridge 

•     213 

One  Beneath  Old  Glory 

3iS 

Our  Boys  Are  Marching  On 

J.H.Jewett     . 

.     236 

Patriotism  at  Squawville 

259 

Peace-at-any-price  Man,  A  .        . 

271 

Phantoms      

276 

Prayer  for  the  Nation  .        .        . 

409 

Race  of  the  Oregon,  The      . 

J.J.Meehan    . 

.    360 

Recompense,  The 
Red  and  the  Blue  The 

C.  H.  Dorrie  . 

•     390 

Regiment  Song     .... 

F.  L.  Stanton 

.     270 

Remember  .the  Maine   .        . 

R.  B.  Wilson  . 

.     219 

Remembered 

T  L    Gordon 

7OO 

Reunited                         ... 

F  L  Stanton 

•      Juu 

1Q2 

Sailing  of  the  Fleet,  The 

•       «5V^ 

412 

Soarin'  o'  the  Eagle,  The      . 

M.  F.  Ham     . 

.   294 

Song  for  the  Fleet,  A    ... 

C.  Scollard      . 

.   291 

Song  for  the  Hour,  A    . 

W.  F.  Dunbar 

.   301 

Song  for  the  Sailor-men,  A  . 

318 

Song  of  Dewey's  Guns,  The 

S.  W.  Foss      . 

•     337 

Song  of  Manila,  The     . 

S.  Sterne 

.     248 

Song  of  the  Fleet,  A     ... 

F.  L.  Stanton 

'     344 

Song  of  the  Rapid-fires         . 

222 

Spain's  Hour  of  Doom         .        . 

A  .  R.  Haven  . 

.      376 

Spaniard  Answered,  The 

R.  C.  Rogers  . 

.      286 

Spirit  of  the  Maine                . 

T.Jenks  .... 

•    37* 

Strike  the  Blow     .... 

F.  McK.  .... 

.    281 

Those  Rebel  Flags 

J.H.Jewett     . 

.    308 

To  Admiral  George  Dewey  . 

V.  Vaughan  . 

•    343 

To  Spain  —  A  Last  Word     . 

E.  M.  Thomas        .        . 

.    225 

To  the  Flying  Squadron 

388 

xiii 


CONTENTS. 


Twins  in  the  Turret,  The  .  .  J.  P.  Bocock  .  .  .  .240 
Uncle  Sam's  Spring  Cleaning  .  S.  W.  Foss  .  .  .  .273 
Uncover  to  the  Flag  .  .  .B.C.  Cheverttn  .  .  .  263 
Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  .  M.  Cavuein  .  .  .246 
Voice  from  the  Old  Boys  Left  Be- 
hind    J-  H.Jewett  .  .  .  .340 

Voice  of  the  Oregon,  The     .        .  H.J.  D.  Browne  .  .  .264 

Volunteer,  The      .        .        .        .  F.  L.  Stanton  .  .  .    269 

War  Hymn B.  R.  Stevens  ....    292 

War  Poem R.  La  Gallienne  .  .  .267 

War  Prayer M.  J.  H .          ....    353 

War-ship  Dixie,  The     .        .        .  F.  L.  Stanton  .  .  .325 

Where  Columbia  Stands       .        .  A.  H.  Hall      .  .  .  .338 

1898  and  1562         .        .        .        .  S.  W.  Foss      .  .  .  .383 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE   ESCAPE    OF   THE    CONSTITUTION.     (See 

page  83) Frontispiece 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BUNKER  HILL     ...  65 

GENERAL  TAYLOR  AT  MONTEREY  .         .         .  102 
"YOU  THAT   IN  THE  FRONT  BEAR  THE  BAT- 

TLE'S  BRUNT"          .         .         .         .         .  125 
AN  AUGUST  MORNING  WITH   FARRAGUT        .  172 
THE  DEPARTURE  OF    A    VOLUNTEER    REGI- 
MENT FOR  CUBA 270 

PARADE  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY  OF  THE  RE- 
PUBLIC, BOSTON,  1904    .        .        .        .  312 
U.  S.  S.  OLYMPIA 378 


£o  ffje  (American  (Jpoef. 

TJNRA  VEL  all  your  tangled  cheats, 

Your  triple-twisted  thread  conceits, 
Your  subtle  sonnets  fling  afar  /  — 
Stand  up  and  show  what  man  you  are  / 

Why  linger  o'er  decrepit  shrine 
In  Hellas  or  in  Palestine  ? 
America  as  Greece  is  grand, 
America  is  Holy  Land. 

The  songs  of  Nile,  and  Jordan's  tunes 
Our  sluggish  Mississippi  croons,  — 
Lo  !  Caught  in  Erie  like  a  gem 
The  star  that  shone  o'er  Bethlehem  / 

The  age  — young,  buoyant  —  longs 

to  hear 

Its  hopes  in  music  high  and  clear, 
Yet  ashes  o'er  your  laurels  lie, 
You  rend  your  garment  of  the  sky. 


TO   THE   AMERICAN   POET. 


O  juggler  with  the  fire  divine, 
O  hoarder  of  God's  bread  and  wine, 
Your  dark  and  doleful  sprigs  of  verse 
Nod  like  the  plumes  above  a  hearse. 

Behold  your  birthright !     Cast  away 
The  mess  of  pottage.     Scorn  for  aye 
The  smirking  bravo,  thin  applause,  — 
Small  praise  of  critics'1  courts  and  laws. 

Join  the  great  chorus,  —  all  that  sings  / 
Seize  the  vast  harp  of  divers  strings  ! 
What  hands  have  helped  that  growing 

tone : 
Job's,  Homer's,  Shakespeare'' s  !    Add 

your  own  ! 

We  want  again  the  note  of  joy, 
The  immortal  rapture  of  the  boy, 
The  flame  lit  quenchless  in  the  dust, 
The  lips  that  sing  because  they  must. 

A  world  of  wonders  wait  its  song,  — 
Invention,  science,  hideous  wrong 
Heart-smitten  by  Truth's  arrow  sharp,  — 
Up,  blinded  sceptic  !     Grasp  your  harp  ! 

FREDERIC  LAWRENCE  KNOWLES. 


XVI 


POEMS   OF   PATRIOTISM 


POEMS    OF 
AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM 


(America. 

TV/I" Y  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  Land  of  Liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain  side 

Let  Freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, 

Thy  name  I  love ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills, 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 


-.AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM. 


Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  Freedom's  song ; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake  ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 

To  thee  we  sing ; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  Freedom's  holy  light ; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 

Our  glorious  Land  to-day, 
'Neath  Education's  sway, 

Soars  upward  still. 
Its  halls  of  learning  fair, 
Whose  bounties  all  may  share, 
Behold  them  everywhere 

On  vale  and  hill ! 

Thy  safeguard,  Liberty, 
The  school  shall  ever  be,  — 
Our  Nation's  pride ! 


AMERICA. 


No  tyrant  hand  shall  smite, 
While  with  encircling  might 
All  here  are  taught  the  Right 
With  Truth  allied. 

Beneath  Heaven's  gracious  will 
The  star  of  progress  still 

Our  course  doth  sway ; 
In  unity  sublime 
To  broader  heights  we  climb, 
Triumphant  over  Time, 

God  speeds  our  way  ! 

Grand  birthright  of  our  sires, 
Our  altars  and  our  fires 

Keep  we  still  pure  ! 
Our  starry  flag  unfurled, 
The  hope  of  all  the  world, 
In  Peace  and  Light  impearled, 

God  hold  secure ! 

—  S.  F.  Smith. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


£ofumfiiftt  f0e  (Bern  of  f0e  <&cean. 

S~\  COLUMBIA,  the  gem  of  the  ocean, 

The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
The  shrine  of  each  patriot's  devotion, 

A  world  offers  homage  to  thee ! 
Thy  mandates  make  heroes  assemble, 

When  Liberty's  form  stands  in  view ; 
Thy  banners  make  Tyranny  tremble, 

When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

CHORUS. 

When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue, 
When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue, 
Thy  banners  make  Tyranny  tremble, 
When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

When  war  winged  its  wide  desolation 
And  threatened  the  land  to  deform, 
The  ark  then  of  Freedom's  foundation, 
Columbia,  rode  safe  thro'  the  storm ; 
With  her  garlands  of  vict'ry  around  her, 
When  so  proudly  she  bore  her  brave 

crew, 

With  her  flag  proudly  floating  before  her, 
The  boast  of  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

—  CHO. 
4 


COLUMBIA,  THE  GEM  OF  THE  OCEAN. 


The  wine-cup,  the  wine-cup  bring  hither, 

And  fill  you  it  true  to  the  brim ; 
May  the  wreaths  they  have  won  never 
wither, 

Nor  the  star  of  their  glory  grow  dim  ! 
May  the  service  united  ne'er  sever, 

But  they  to  their  colors  prove  true ! 
The  Army  and  Navy  forever ! 

Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white,  and 
blue  I  —  CHO. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


if,  (America. 


TLJAIL,  son  of  peak  and  prairie, 

Triumphant  o^er  thy  foes  !  — 
Shod  with  the  sands  of  Cuba, 

Crowned  with  the  Klondike  snows  / 

The  breast  that  nursed  thee,  shrunk 
with  age, 

Still  yielded  milk  of  power; 
Past  kingdoms  prophesied  thy  birth 

And  groaned  to  see  thy  hour. 
Hark  !    Egypt  moves  her  lips  of  stone  : 

"  For  thee  I  labored  long." 
Listen  !     The  isles  of  Homer  : 

"  We  named  thee  in  our  song." 

I  hear  a  mighty  struggling 

Like  grave-clothes  torn  from  death  ; 
Millions  of  lips  unmuffled 

Pour  unaccustomed  breath  : 
"  Hail,  foundling  of  the  western  seas, 

Hail,  harsh  and  sacred  sod, 
Where  the  strong  plant  of  Freedom 

Holds  up  its  leaves  to  God  \ 


HAIL,  AMERICA. 

"  For  thee  our  toil,  our  anguish, 

The  pathos  of  our  years, 
Our  baths  in  bleeding  battles, 

Our  lives  of  sweat  and  tears !  " 

Hark  !  like  a  climbing  sun,  the  Voice 
Mounts  upward,  —  owns  the  sky, 

And  clarions  from  the  zenith 
In  trumpet-tongued  reply : 

«« Ye  shall  no  longer  wait  me, 

Nor  call  upon  my  name, 
I  come,  O  buried  fathers, 

The  latest  fruit  of  fame ! 
The  Indies  pay  me  tribute, 

The  Andes  bring  me  toll, 
I  own  no  serfs  but  loyal  hearts 

That  kiss  my  kind  control. 

«  My  hands  are  free  from  slaughter, 

The  sheath  conceals  the  sword, 
I  trust  the  regiments  of  Heaven, 

And  navies  of  the  Lord  ! 
Peace  is  my  guard  and  angel, 

Her  wings  above  me  stir,  — 
Mine  arms  I  reach  to  all  the  world, 

Mine  eyes  I  turn  to  her. 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"  Yet,  ah  !  if  honor's  ensign 

Be  trampled  in  the  dust, 
With  angry  sorrow  let  me  show 

How  strife  may  still  be  just ; 
I  will  tell  History  that  she  lies, 

Even  at  her  very  door, 
And  buy  a  more  enduring  peace 

At  the  red  cost  of  war. 

"  Trafalgar  greets  Manila, 

All  ages  grow  divine, 
Distance  is  dead,  the  Past  a  dream, 

And  Marathon  is  mine  ! 
Wherever  heroes  die  for  truth, 

Beneath  whatever  sun, 
The  years  are  lovers  clasping  hands, 

And  all  the  world  is  one ! 

"  O  buried  sires,  your  hands  are  mould 

That  once  were  hot  to  slay, 
Those  eyes  are  filled  with  dust,  that 
gorged 

With  sight  of  human  prey. 
Kings  tremble  on  their  purple  thrones, 

Crowns  crumble,  tyrants  die, 
While  down  untold  Millenniums, 

March  Destiny  and  I !  " 

8 


HAIL,  AMERICA. 


That  tatter*  d  flag  your  father  kissed. 

Fling,  boy,  against  the  gale  ! 
And  join  the  cry  that  rends  the  sky  : 

Hail,  home  of  freedom,  hail! 
Hail,  son  of  peak  and  prairie  ! 

Hail,  lord  of  coast  and  sea  ! 
Our  prayers  and  song,  —  our  lives 
belong, 

Land  of  our  love,  to  thee  ! 

—  Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles. 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


TIP  with  the  banner  of  the  free ! 

Its  stars  and  stripes  unfurled ! 
And  let  the  battle  beauty  blaze 

Above  a  startled  world. 
No  more  around  its  towering  staff 

The  folds  shall  twine  again, 
Till  falls  beneath  its  righteous  wrath 

The  gonfalon  of  Spain. 

That  flag  with  constellated  stars 

Shines  ever  in  the  van  ! 
And  like  the  rainbow  in  the  storm, 

Presages  peace  to  man. 
For  still  amid  the  cannon's  roar 

It  sanctifies  the  fight, 
And  flames  along  the  battle  lines, 

The  emblem  of  the  Right. 


It  seeks  no  conquest,  knows  no  fear ; 

Cares  not  for  pomp  or  state ; 
As  pliant  as  the  atmosphere, 

As  resolute  as  Fate. 


THE   FLAG. 

Where'er  it  floats,  on  land  or  sea, 

No  stain  its  honor  mars, 
And  Freedom  smiles,  her  fate  secure 

Beneath  its  steadfast  stars. 

—  Henry  Lynden  Flash. 


ii 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


©irge  for  a 


his  eyes  ;  his  work  is  done  ! 
What  to  him  is  friend  or  foeman, 
Rise  of  moon,  or  set  of  sun, 

Hand  of  man,  or  kiss  of  woman  ? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low  ! 

As  man  may,  he  fought  his  fight, 

Proved  his  truth  by  his  endeavor  ; 
Let  him  sleep  in  solemn  night, 
Sleep  forever  and  forever. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low  ! 

Fold  him  in  his  country's  stars, 

Roll  the  drum  and  fire  the  volley  ! 
What  to  him  are  all  our  wars, 

What  but  death  bemocking  folly? 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know  ; 
Lay  him  low  ! 
12 


DIRGE    FOR  A    SOLDIER. 


Leave  him  to  God's  watching  eye ; 

Trust  him  to  the  hand  that  made  him. 
Mortal  love  weeps  idly  by ; 

God  alone  has  power  to  aid  him. 
Lay  him  low,  lay  him  low, 
In  the  clover  or  the  snow  ! 
What  cares  he  ?     He  cannot  know ! 
Lay  him  low ! 

—  G.  H.  Boker, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Q&effonam. 

TV/T OTHER  of  Swords !     While  the  river  runs, 

Or  the  steamer  seeks  the  sea, 
While  the  north  wind  blows  from  the  chill  of  Snows, 

And  the  south  from  the  scented  Key, 
So  long,  so  long  will  live  the  song 

That  thy  lilting  bugles  sing, 
As  the  war-ship  rides  down  the  deep-sea  tides, 
Where  the  green  foams  white  on  her  armored  sides, 

And  the  wind'ard  gun-shields  ring. 

There  be  they  who  sing  that  the  song  will  cease, 

The  song  that  thy  sons  began ; 
That  the  good  old  World  will  loll  in  peace, 

In  the  bond  of  the  Peace  of  Man. 
They  sing,  —  and  clear  'twixt  the  notes  we  hear 

The  clink  of  the  warrior's  trade; 
And  the  thund'rous  call  where  the  hammers  fall, 
And  the  steam-power  shrieks  o'er  the  factory  wall, 

Where  the  rifled  guns  are  made. 

The  Breath  of  the  Lord  may  rule  the  sea, 

And  the  Lies  of  Men  the  land ; 
And  the  craft  of  the  tongue  may  hold  in  fee 

The  strength  of  the  heavy  hand ; 


AD   BELLONAM. 


But  though  tongues  may  quicken  and  strength  may 
sicken, 

And  hands  grow  soft  and  small, 
Year  upon  year  the  day  draws  near 
Of  the  unsheathed  sword  and  the  shaken  spear, 

That  shall  make  amends  for  all. 

When  the  Armageddon  sunrise  breaks 

On  the  ironclad's  smoking  line ; 
When  the  last  dawn  lights  on  that  last  of  fights 

Where  the  strength  of  man  shall  shine, 
One  last  grim  day  of  the  world  at  play 

With  bugle  and  tuck  of  drum, 
While  the  red  drops  beat  on  the  shattered  fleet, 
Till  the  red  sun  sinks  on  the  last  defeat, 

Then  —  let  the  Millennium  come ! 

—  Frank  L.  Pollock. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(fte&er  (Jtnoton  ©efeat 

/^vN  history's  crimson  pages,  high  up  on  the  roll 

of  fame. 
The  story  of  Old  Glory  burns,  in  deathless  words  of 

flame. 
'Twas  cradled  in  war's  blinding  smoke,  amid   the 

roar  of  guns, 
Its  lullabies  were  battle-cries,  the  shouts  of  freedom's 

sons; 
It  is  the  old  red,  white,  and  blue,  proud  emblem  of 

the  free, 

It  is  the  flag  that  floats  above  our  land  of  liberty. 
Then  greet  it,  when  you  meet  it,  boys,  the  flag  that 

waves  on  high ; 
And  hats  off,  all  along  the  line,  when  freedom's  flag 

goes  by. 

CHORUS. 

Uncover  when  the  flag  goes  by,  boys, 

'Tis  freedom's  starry  banner  that  you  greet, 

Flag  famed  in  song  and  story, 

Long  may  it  wave,  Old  Glory, 
The  flag  that  has  never  known  defeat. 

All  honor  to  the   Stars  and  Stripes,  our  glory  and 
our  pride, 

16 


FLAG   THAT   HAS    NEVER   KNOWN   DEFEAT. 


All  honor  to  the  flag  for  which  our  fathers  fought 

and  died ; 
On  many  a  blood-stained  battle-field,  on  many  a  gory 

sea, 
The  flag  has  triumphed,  evermore  triumphant  may  it 

be. 
And  since  again,  'mid  shot  and  shell,  its  folds  must 

be  unfurled, 
God  grant  that  we  may  keep  it  still  unstained  before 

the  world. 

All  hail  the  flag  we  love,  may  it  victorious  ever  fly, 
And  hats  off,  all  along  the  line,  when  freedom's  flag 

goes  by.  —  CHO. 
—  Charles  L.  Benjamin  and  George  D.  Sutton. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


at  gome. 


'IP  HE  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash 

With  smile  that  well  her  pain  dissembles, 
The  while  beneath  her  drooping  lash 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles, 
Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 
Her  heart  has  shed  a  drop  as  dear 

As  e'er  bedewed  the  field  of  glory  ! 


The  wife  who  girds  her  husband's  sword 

'Mid  little  ones  who  weep  or  wonder, 
And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder, 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 

The  bolts  of  death  around  him  rattle, 
Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e'er 

Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle. 

The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses, 

Then  breathes  a  few  brave  words  and  brief, 
Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses, 


THE   BRAVE   AT    HOME. 


With  no  one  but  her  secret  God 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 

Sheds  holy  blood  as  e'er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom's  field  of  honor ! 

—  Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


19 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


(gugfe. 


T  N  a  glittering  glory  of  diamond  dew, 

Where  the  tall  white  headstones  gleam  in  a 

row, 
By  the  ivied  church,  Memorial  Day, 

With  sheaves  of  lilies  the  mourners  go. 
All  but  one,  and  she  sits  alone, 

A  sad-eyed  woman  with  locks  of  gray, 
And  keeps  a  tryst  of  the  vanished  years 

With  the  dear,  dead  lover  who  marched  away. 

Her  whitened  tresses  were  brown  and  bright, 

Her  cheeks  were  pink  as  a  damask  rose, 
When  he  clasped  her  close  in  a  last  embrace, 

While  about  them  fluttered  the  orchard's  snows. 
The  bugle  called  in  the  sunlit  morn, 

Bayonets  glistened,  and  flags  were  gay, 
He  turned  to  wave  her  a  loud  adieu,  — 

The  brave  young  lover  who  marched  away, 

To  the  silent  city  above  the  town, 

With  garlands  laden,  yet  still  they  pass, 

But  she  seeth  only  a  curly  head 

And  a  broken  sword  in  the  trampled  grass. 

20 


THE   BUGLE. 


She  weaveth  a  wreath  of  heliotrope, 

And  heareth  even  the  bugle  play 
That  is  mute  with  rust  in  the  mouldered  hand 

Of  the  gallant  lover  who  marched  away. 

The  flowers  have  fallen  about  her  feet, 

Her  lips  are  pale,  and  her  fingers  chill, 
Far  above  the  blue  of  the  crystal  sky 

Her  spirit  follows  the  bugle  still. 
Its  silvery  melody  leads  her  on, 

Till  far  in  a  world  of  fadeless  May 
She  plights  the  troth  of  her  youth  again 

With  the  handsome  lover  who  marched  away. 

There  was  never  a  shot  that  screamed  and  fell, 

And  never  a  bayonet-thrust  went  through 
The  dauntless  breast  of  a  soldier  boy, 

But  it  pierced  the  heart  of  a  woman,  too. 
From  end  to  end  of  the  land  they  sit 

By  desolate  hearths,  alone  and  gray, 
And  wait  for  the  ghastly  bugle-call 

And  the  soldier  lover  who  marched  away. 

— Minna  Irving. 


21 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


tye 


/^\FF  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by  ! 

And  let  the  heart  have  its  say  : 
You're  man  enough  for  a  tear  in  your  eye 
That  you  will  not  wipe  away. 

You're  man  enough  for  a  thrill  that  goes 

To  your  very  finger-tips  — 
Ay  !  the  lump  just  then  in  your  throat  that  rose 

Spoke  more  than  your  parted  lips. 

Lift  up  the  boy  on  your  shoulder  high, 

And  show  him  the  faded  shred  ; 
Those  stripes  would  be  red  as  the  sunset  sky 

If  death  could  have  dyed  them  red. 

Off  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by  ! 

Uncover  the  youngster's  head  ; 
Teach  him  to  hold  it  holy  and  high 

For  the  sake  of  its  sacred  dead. 

—  H.  C.  Bunner. 


22 


WAR. 


T  AM  War.  The  upturned  eyeballs  of  piled  dead 
men  greet  my  eye, 

And  the  sons  of  mothers  perish,  —  and  I  laugh  to  see 
them  die, — 

Mine  the  demon  lust  for  torture,  mine  the  devil  lust 
for  pain, 

And  there  is  to  me  no  beauty  like  the  pale  brows  of 
the  slain ! 

But  my  voice  calls  forth  the  godlike  from  the  slug- 
gish souls  at  ease, 

And  the  hands  that  toyed  with  ledgers  scatter  thun- 
ders 'round  the  seas ; 

And  the  lolling  idler,  wakening,  measures  up  to  God's 
own  plan, 

And  the  puling  trifler  greatens  to  the  stature  of  a 
man. 

When  I  speak,  the  centuried  towers  of  old  cities  melt 

in  smoke, 
And  the  fortressed  ports  sink  reeling  at  my  far-aimed 

thunder-stroke ; 
And  an  immemorial  empire  flings  its  last  flag  to  the 

breeze, 
Sinking  with  its  splintered  navies  down  in  the  unpity- 

ing  seas. 

23 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


But  the  blind  of  sight  awaken  to  an  unimagined  day, 

And  the  mean  of  soul  grow  conscious  there  is  great- 
ness in  their  clay ; 

Where  my  bugle  voice  goes  pealing  slaves  grow 
heroes  at  its  breath, 

And  the  trembling  coward  rushes  to  the  welcome 
arms  of  death. 

Pagan,  heathen  and  inhuman,  devilish  as  the  heart 
of  hell, 

Wild  as  chaos,  strong  for  ruin,  clothed  in  hate  un- 
speakable, — 

So  they  call  me,  —  and  I  care  not,  —  still  I  work  my 
waste  afar, 

Heeding  not  your  weeping  mothers  and  your  widows 
-  I  am  War  ! 

But  your  soft-boned  men  grow  heroes  when  my  flam- 
ing eyes  they  see, 

And  I  teach  your  little  people  how  supremely  great 
they  be ; 

Yea,  I  tell  them  of  the  wideness  of  the  soul's  unfolded 
plan 

And  the  godlike  stuff  that's  moulded  in  the  making  of 
a  man. 

Ah,  the  godlike  stuff  that's  moulded  in  the  making  of 
a  man! 


WAR. 


It  has  stood  my  iron  testing  since  this  strong  old 

world  began. 

Tell  me  not  that  men  are  weaklings,  halting  trem- 
blers, pale  and  slow,— 
There  is  stuff  to  shame  the  seraphs  in  the  race  of 

men  —  I  know. 
I  have  tested  them  by  fire,  and  I  know  that  man  is 

great, 
And  the  soul  of  man  is  stronger  than  is  either  death 

or  fate ; 
And  where'er  my  bugle  calls  them,  under  any  sun  or 

star, 
They  will  leap  with  smiling  faces  to  the  fire  test  of 

war. 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 


25 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


3n  (Action. 

TIT" HEN    the   blue-black   waves   are   tipped   with 

white,  and  the  balmy  trade-winds  blow, 
When  the  palm-crowned  coast  in  the  offing  lies,  with 

sands  like  the  driven  snow, 
When   the   mighty   hulls   of   the   battle-ships  —  the 

nation's  strength  and  pride  — 
And  the  ghostlike  little  torpedo-boats  are  lying  side 

by  side ; 

When  all  is  still  save  the  screaming  gulls,  as  they 

circle  high  o'erhead, 
When  naught  is  heard  on  the  steel-bound  decks,  save 

the  watches'  measured  tread, 
When  far  to  windward  a  tiny  cloud  floats  up  from  the 

grim  old  fort, 
Then  the  piercing  scream  of  a  shrapnel-shot  and  the 

ten-ton  gun's  report ; 

Then  armored  decks  are  alive  with  life,  and  the  calls 

to  quarters  below, 
Then  the  gun  crews  stand  beside  their  guns,  and  the 

stokers  sweat  below, 
Then  the  jingling  bells  in  the  engine-room  clamor  and 

call  for  speed, 

26 


IN   ACTION. 


And  the  thousand  tons  of  hardened  steel  shake  like 
a  wind-tossed  reed. 

Now  the  guns  of  the  fort  are  belching  flame,  and  the 

shot  and  shell  fall  fast, 
Now  three  are  down  by  the  forward  gun,  and  six  in 

the  fighting  mast, 
Now  the  ships  rush  on  in  majesty,  while  the  gunners 

hold  their  breath, 
And  pray  to  their  God  to  spare  them  still  from  the 

harbor's  hidden  death. 

Now  a  string  of  fluttering  signal  flags  from  the  bridge 

of  the  flagship  fly, 
Now  the  gatlings,  rapids,  and  twelve-inch  guns  with 

a  crashing  peal  reply, 
Now  the  smoke  hangs  low  o'er  the  shot-torn  wave, 

dark  death  lurks  in  the  air, 
And  never  a  word  by  the  guns  is  said  while  they  spit 

and  boom  and  flare. 

The  fleet  steams  up  in  battle  array,  and  the  broad- 
sides crash  and  roar, 

While  the  rumble  and  rip  from  the  enemy's  guns 
reply  from  the  smoke-hung  shore ; 

The  once  white  decks  run  red  with  blood,  while  the 
surgeons  work  below, 

And  fort  and  fleet,  with  shot  and  shell,  pay  back  each 
blow  with  blow. 

27 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


At  last  a  flag  of  truce  is  raised  and  gleams  through 

the  drifting  smoke, 
And  the  havoc  and  wreck  of  a  gun  is  seen,  where  a 

ten-inch  shrapnel  broke ; 
At  last  the  guns  of  the  fleet  are  still,  and  now  from  far 

and  near 
Are   heard  the    shouts   of   a  victor's  crew  as  they 

answer  cheer  with  cheer. 

The  shrilly  call  of  the  bo's'n's  mate  the  crew  from 

quarters  pipes, 
And   the  dead  are  stretched   on   the   quarter-deck, 

wrapped  in  the  stars  and  stripes, 
While  the  setting  sun  sinks  in  the  west,  a  blazing 

ball  of  fire, 
Lighting  the  scene  of  a  battle  fought,  and  the  carnage 

of  man's  desire. 


SOMEBODY'S   DARLING. 


's  ©atfing. 


T  NTO  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls, 

Where  the  dead  and  the  dying  lay, 
Wounded  by  bayonet  shells  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day,  — 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  brave, 

Wearing  yet  on  his  sweet,  pale  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  in  the  dust  of  the  grave, 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold, 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow ; 
Pale  are  the  lips  of  delicate  mould,  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow 

Brush  his  wandering  waves  of  gold, 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now,  — 

Somebody's  darling  is  still  and  cold. 


Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 
Murmur  a  prayer,  soft  and  low ; 

One  bright  curl  from  his  fair  mates  take, 
They  were  somebody's  pride,  you  know ; 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there  — 
Was  it  a  mother's,  soft  and  white  ? 

Or  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  those  waves  of  light  ? 

God  knows  best ;  he  has  somebody's  love  ; 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there ; 
Somebody's  wafted  his  name  above 

Night  and  morn  on  the  wings  of  prayer ; 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave,  and  grand ; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  watching  and  waiting  for  him,  — 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart ; 
And  there  he  lies,  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling,  childlike  lips  apart ; 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  his  grave  a  tear ; 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head : 

"  Somebody's  Darling  slumbers  here." 

—  Maria  La  Conte. 


THE   WAR- SHIP   OF   1812. 


of  1812. 

O  HE  was  no  armored  cruiser  of  twice  six  thousand 

tons, 
With  the  thirty  foot  of  metal  that  make  your  modern 

guns; 

She  didn't  have  a  freeboard  of  thirty  foot  in  clear, 
An'  she  didn't  need  a  million  repairin'  fund  each 

year. 
She  had  no  rackin'  engines  to  ramp  an'  stamp  an' 

strain, 
To  work  her  steel-clad  turrets  an'  break  her  hull  in 

twain ; 
She  did  not  have  electric  lights,  —  the  battle-lantern's 

glare 
Was  all  the  light  the  'tween  decks  had,  —  an'  God's 

own  good  fresh  air. 

She  had  no  gapin'  air-flumes  to  throw  us  down  our 
breath, 

An'  we  didn't  batten  hatches  to  smother  men  to 
death ; 

She  didn't  have  five  hundred  smiths  —  two  hundred 
men  would  do  — 

In  the  old-time  Yankee  frigate  for  an  old-time  Yan- 
kee crew, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


An'  a  fightin'  Yankee  captain,  with  his  old-time  Yan- 
kee clothes, 

A-cursin'  Yankee  sailors  with  his  old-time  Yankee 
oaths. 

She  was  built  of  Yankee  timber  and  manned  by  Yan- 
kee men, 

An'  fought  by  Yankee  sailors  —  Lord  send  their  like 
again ! 

With  the  wind  abaft  the  quarter  and  the  sea-foam 
flyin'  free, 

An'  every  tack  and  sheet  housed  taut  and  braces 
eased  to  lee, 

You  could  hear  the  deep  sea  thunder  from  the  knight- 
heads  where  it  broke, 

As  she  trailed  her  lee  guns  under  a  blindin'  whirl  o' 
smoke. 

She  didn't  run  at  twenty  knots,  —  she  wasn't  built  to 

run, — 
An'  we  didn't  need  a  half  a  watch  to  handle  every 

gun. 
Our  captain  didn't  fight  his  ship  from  a  little  pen  o' 

steel ; 
He  fought  her  from  his  quarter-deck,  with  two  hands 

at  the  wheel, 
An'   we   fought    in   Yankee  fashion,    half-naked, — 

stripped  to  board,  — 


THE   WAR- SHIP   OF   1812. 


An'  when  they  hauled  their  red  flag  down  we  praised 

the  Yankee  Lord ; 
We  fought  like  Yankee  sailors,  an'  we'll  do  it,  too, 

again, 
You've  changed  the  ships  an'  methods,  but  you  can't 

change  Yankee  men ! 

—  Philadelphia  Record. 


33 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


OHE'S  a  floating  boiler,  crammed  with  fire  and 

steam, 

A  toy,  with  dainty  works  like  any  watch  ; 
A  working,  weaving  basketful  of  tricks,  — 
Eccentric,  cam  and  lever,  cog  and  notch. 
She's  a  dashing,  lashing,  tumbling  shell  of  steel, 

A  headstrong,  kicking,  nervous,  plunging  beast,  — 
A  long,  lean  ocean  liner,  —  trimmed  down  small ; 
A  bucking  bronco  harnessed  for  the  east. 
She  can  rear  and  toss  and  roll 
Your  body  from  your  soul, 
And  she's  most  unpleasant  wet,  —  to  say  the  least ! 

But  see  her  slip  in ;  sneaking  down,  at  night, 

All  a-tremble,  deadly,  silent,  —  Satan-sly. 
Watch  her  gather  for  the  rush,  and  catch  her  breath ! 

See  her  dodge  the  wakeful  cruiser's  sweeping  eye. 
Hear  the  humming  !    Hear  her  coming  !  coming  fast ! 

(That's  the  sound  might  make  men  wish  they  were 

at  home 
—  Hear  the  rattling  Maxim,  barking  rapid  fire  ! ) 

See   her   loom   out   through   the   fog  with   bows 
afoam ! 

34 


THE   TORPEDO-BOAT. 


Then  some  will  wish  for  land. 
(They  'd  be  sand  fleas  in  the  sand ; 
Or  yellow  grubs  reposing  in  the  loam  !) 

She's  a  floating  boiler,  crammed  with  fire  and  steam, 

A  dainty  toy,  with  works  just  like  a  watch ; 
A  weaving,  working  basketful  of  tricks,  — 

A  pent  volcano,  and  stoppered  at  top-notch. 
She  is  Death  and  swift  Destruction  in  a  case 

(Not  the  Unseen,  but  the  Awful,  —  plain  in  sight), 
The  Dread  that  must  be  halted  when  afar ; 
She's  a  concentrated,  fragile  form  of  Might ! 
She's  a  daring,  vicious  thing, 
With  a  rending,  deadly  sting,  — 
And  she  asks  no  odds  nor  quarter  in  the  fight ! 

— James  Barnes. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


QHE'S  up  there,  —  Old  Glory,  —  where  lightnings 

are  sped ; 

She  dazzles  the  nations  with  ripples  of  red ; 
And   she'll   wave   for  us   living,   or   droop   o'er   us 

dead,  — 

The  flag  of  our  country  forever ! 
She's  up  there,  —  Old  Glory,  —  how  bright  the  stars 

stream ! 

And  the  stripes  like  red  signals  of  liberty  gleam  ! 
And  we  dare  for  her,  living,  or  dream  the  last  dream, 
'Neath  the  flag  of  our  country  forever ! 
She's  up  there,  —  Old  Glory,  —  no  tyrant-dealt  scars, 
No  blur  on  her  brightness,  no  stain  on  her  stars ! 
The  brave  blood  of  heroes  hath  crimsoned  her  bars. 
She's  the  flag  of  our  country  forever ! 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


THE    FLAG. 


Stag. 


ID  OLL  a  river  wide  and  strong, 

Like  the  tides  a-swinging. 
Lift  the  joyful  floods  of  song, 

Set  the  mountains  ringing. 
Run  the  lovely  banner  high,  — 

Crimson  morning-glory ! 
Field  as  blue  as  yonder  sky, 

Every  star  a  story. 

Let  the  people,  heart  and  lip, 

Hail  the  gleaming  splendor! 
Let  the  guns  from  shore  and  ship 

Acclamation  render ! 
All  ye  oceans,  clap  your  hands ! 

Echo  plains  and  highlands, 
Speed  the  voice  thro'  all  the  lands 

To  the  Orient  islands. 

Darling  flag  of  liberty! 

Law  and  Love  revealing, 
All  the  downcast  turn  to  thee, 

For  thy  help  appealing. 
In  the  front  for  human  right, 

Flash  thy  stars  of  morning, 

37 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


All  that  hates  and  hides  the  light 
Flies  before  thy  warning. 

By  the  colors  of  the  day, 

By  the  breasts  that  wear  them, 
To  the  living  God  we  pray 

For  the  brave  that  bear  them  ! 
Run  the  rippling  banner  high  ; 

Peace  or  war  the  weather, 
Cheers  or  tears,  we'll  live  or  die 

Under  it  together. 

—  M.  W.  S. 


COLUMBIA. 


Cofumfiia. 

TV/TATED  to  the  Millennium, —Time's  last  heir 
And  proudest  daughter,  conquerless  as  he ; 
Girdled  with  lakes  like  jewels  princely  fair, 
With  strong  feet  planted  in  the  Mexic  sea ! 


Where  Law  is  liberty,  where  Love  is  power, 

And  the  twain  one,  there  Treason  cannot  dwell ; 

A  fangless  asp,  it  coiled  one  impotent  hour, 

But  at  thy  white  glance  backward  writhed  to  hell. 

Leave  dotard  empires  flames  of  drunken  war, 
Be  thine  chaste  hours  of  labor  and  increase, 

Vineyards  and  harvests  yielding  guiltless  store, 
Toil's  bloodless  battles  on  the  plains  of  peace ! 

Yet  when  slain  Weakness,  dying  at  thy  door, 

Summoning  thy  right  arm's  vengeance,  clasps  thy 
feet,  — 

Thy  sword  that  drinks  her  murderer's  blood  is  pure 
As  laughing  sickles  in  the  saffron  wheat. 

39 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Clearing  a  crimson  path  where  Peace  may  tread 
More  safely  ;  thou  dost  play  thy  patient  part, 

Love's  pledged  ally, — yea,  though  thy  blade  be  red; 
Thrusting  War's  weapons  thro'  his  own  false  heart. 

O  goddess,  arctic-crowned  and  tropic-shod 
And  belted  with  great  waters,  hear  our  cry,  — 

More  honest  never  reached  the  ear  of  God, — 
We'll  serve  thee,  laud  thee,  love  thee,  till  we  die ! 
—  Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles. 


40 


SONG   OF   THE   BULLET. 


gong  of  f0e  Buffet 

T  T  whizzed  and  whistled  along  the  blurred 

And  red-blent  ranks  ;  and  it  nicked  the  star 
Of  an  epaulette,  as  it  snarled  the  word,  — 
War! 

On  he  sped,  —  and  the  lifted  wrist 

Of  the  ensign-bearer  stung,  and  straight 
Dropped  at  his  side,  as  the  word  was  hissed,  — 
Hate! 

On  went  the  missile,  —  smoothed  the  blue 

Of  a  jaunty  cap,  and  the  curls  thereof, 
Cooing  soft,  as  a  dove  might  do,  — 
Love! 

Sang !  —  sang  on !  —  sang  hate,  —  sang  war,  — 
Sang  love,  in  sooth,  till  it  needs  must  cease, 
Hushed  in  the  heart  it  was  questing,  or,  — 
Peace ! 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


JJong  of  f$e  Cannon. 


TIT"  HEN  the  diplomats  cease  from  their 
capers, 

Their  red-tape  requests  and  replies, 
Their  shuttlecock  battle  of  papers, 

Their  saccharine  parley  of  lies  ; 
When  the  plenipotentiary  wrangle 

Is  tied  in  a  chaos  of  knots, 
And  becomes  an  unwindable  tangle 

Of  verbals  unmarried  to  thoughts  ; 
When  they've  anguished  and  argued  pro- 
foundly, 

Asserted,  assumed,  and  averred, 
Then  I  end  up  the  dialogue  roundly 

With  my  monosyllabical  word. 

Not  mine  is  a  speech  academic, 

No  lexicon  lingo  is  mine, 
And  in  politic  parley,  polemic, 

I  was  never  created  to  shine. 
But  I  speak  with  some  show  of  decision, 

And  I  never  attempt  to  be  bland, 
I  hurl  my  one  word  with  precision, 

My  hearers  —  they  all  understand. 

42 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   CANNON. 


It  requires  no  labored  translation, 
Its  pith  and  its  import  to  glean ; 

They  gather  its  signification, 

They  know  at  the  first  what  I  mean. 

The  codes  of  the  learned  legations, 

Of  form,  and  of  rule,  and  decree, 
The  etiquette  books  of  the  nations, — 

They  were  never  intended  for  me. 
When  your  case  is  talked  into  confusion, 

Then  hush  you,  my  diplomat  friend, 
Give  me  just  a  word  in  conclusion, 

Let  me  bring  the  dispute  to  an  end. 
Ye  diplomats,  cease  to  aspire 

A  case  that's  appealed  to  debate, 
It  has  gone  to  a  court  that  is  higher, 

And  I'm  the  Attorney  for  Fate. 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 


43 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"AT  dawn,"  he  said,  "  I  bid  them  all  farewell, 
To  go  where  bugles  call  and  rifles  gleam." 

And  with  the  restless  thought  asleep  he  fell, 
And  glided  into  dream. 

A  great  hot  plain  from  sea  to  mountain  spread,  — 

Through  it  a  level  river  slowly  drawn ; 
He  moved  with  a  vast  crowd,  and  at  its  head 
Streamed  banners  like  the  dawn. 

There  came  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening  roar, 
And  dissonant  cries  of  triumph  and  dismay; 
Blood  trickled  down  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
And  with  the  dead  he  lay. 

The  morn  broke  in  upon  his  solemn  dreams, 

And  still  with  steady  pulse  and  deepening  eye, 
"  Where  bugles  call,"  he  said,  "  and  rifles  gleam, 
I  follow,  though  I  die  ! " 

Wise  youth  !  By  few  is  glory's  wreath  attained ; 

But  death,  or  late  or  soon,  awaiteth  all, 
To  fight  in  Freedom's  cause  is  something  gained, — 
And  nothing  lost  to  fall. 

—  Elbridge  Jefferson  Cutler. 


44 


THE   FLAG  GOES   BY. 


TTATS  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 
A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 
A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky. 
Hats  off ! 
The  flag  is  passing  by  ! 

Blue,  and  crimson,  and  white  it  shines, 

Over  the  steel-tipped,  ordered  lines. 

Hats  off ! 

The  colors  before  us  fly ; 

But  more  than  the  flag  is  passing  by. 

Sea  fights  and  land  fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  to  save  the  state ; 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships ; 
Cheers  of  victory  on  dying  lips ; 

Days  of  plenty,  and  years  of  peace, 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase ; 
Equal  justice,  right,  and  law, 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe  ; 

Sign  of  a  Nation,  great  and  strong, 

To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong ; 

45 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Pride,  and  glory,  and  honor,  all 
Live  in  the  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 

Hats  off ! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums ; 

And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high. 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by ! 

-  H.  H.  Bennett. 


SONG   OF   THE    BATTLE- SHIPS. 


of 


TV/I"  IND  of  man,  what  have  you  wrought, 

From  the  ribs  of  mother  earth, 
From  the  soil  that  gave  you  birth  ? 
Mind  of  man,  what  have  you  wrought  ? 

You  have  builded  mighty  navies,  you  have  made  the 

sea  your  slave, 
And  the  booming  of  your  cannon  strikes  the  crest  of 

every  wave  ; 

You  have  dug  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth's  eternal 

hills, 
Tearing  out  the  stubborn  metals  for  the  grinding  of 

your  mills  ; 

For  the  forging  of  your  hammers,  for  the  blowing  of 

your  blasts, 
For  the  making  of  your  armor,  for  the  building  of 

your  masts  ; 

For  the  guns  whose  rolling  thunders  frighten  half  a 

world  in  awe, 
Shouting  out  the  fateful  message,  "  Right  is  Might, 

and  Might  is  Law." 

47 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Oh,  the  guns,  great  guns, 
Shooting  forty  million  tons ; 
Shooting  death,  and  shooting  hell ! 
Aim,  you  gunners,  aim  them  well. 

You  have  slaved  a  million  freemen  for  the  digging  of 

your  coal, 
For  your  engines  throbbing  wildly,  like  a  panting 

human  soul. 

You  have  chained  the  ragged  lightning,  and  you  hold 

it  in  your  hand, 
By  the  pressing  of  a  button  you  can  devastate  a  land. 

Oh,  the  fury  of  your  anger !  Oh,  the  pent-up  seas 
of  blood 

That  shall  wet  the  ocean's  battles  with  a  gory,  hu- 
man flood ! 

Oh,  the  booming  of  your  cannon !     Oh,  the  millions 

you  shall  slay, 
When  the  wrath  of  man  is  loosened  in  a  frightful 

judgment  day ! 

Mind  of  man,  what  have  you  wrought, 
From  the  ribs  of  mother  earth, 
From  the  soil  that  gave  you  birth  ? 
Mind  of  man,  what  have  you  wrought  ? 

—  C.  F.  Harper. 

48 


THE    SOLDIER   BOY    FOR   ME. 


^oftie*  QjJoe  for  Qtte. 


/T*HE  man  who  wears  the  shoulder-straps 

And  has  his  sword  in  hand, 
Who  proudly  strides  along  in  front, 

Looks  good,  and  brave,  and  grand  ; 
But,  back  there  in  the  ranks  somewhere,  — 

Just  which  I  cannot  see,  — 
With  his  gun  upon  his  shoulder,  is 

The  soldier  boy  for  me  ! 

The  man  who  wears  the  shoulder-straps 

Is  handsome,  brave,  and  true, 
But  there  are  other  handsome  boys, 

And  other  brave  ones,  too  ! 
When  there  are  heights  that  must  be  won 

While  bullets  fill  the  air, 
'  Tis  not  the  officer  alone 

Who  braves  the  dangers  there. 

The  man  who  wears  the  shoulder-straps 

Is  cheered  along  the  way, 
And  public  honor  dulls  his  dread 

Of  falling  in  the  fray  ; 
But,  there  behind  him  in  the  ranks, 

And  moving  like  a  part 

49 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Of  some  machine,  is  many  a  man 
With  just  as  brave  a  heart. 

The  man  who  wears  the  shoulder-straps 

Deserves  the  people's  praise ; 
I  honor  and  applaud  him  for 

The  noble  part  he  plays  ; 
But,  back  there  in  the  ranks  somewhere, 

Stout-hearted,  brave,  is  he,  — 
Prepared  to  do,  and  nerved  to  dare,  — 

The  soldier  boy  for  me ! 

~S.  E.Kiser. 


THE    HARBOR    MINE. 


gatfiot  QJUne. 


(~*  IVE  the  speedway  to  the  cruiser, 

Give  the  monitor  the  tide, 
To  the  battle-ship  with  its  steel  side-strip 

The  channel  deep  and  wide  ; 
Give  the  fleet  full  way  o'er  the  ocean, 
Give  the  batt'ries  wind-wide  range  ; 
But  mine  be  a  grave  'neath  the  salt-sea  wave, 
'Mid  the  creatures  wild  and  strange, 
For  I  am  the  harbor  mine, 
And  day  by  day  I  swing 
On  my  anchor-chain  'neath  the  rolling 

main 

While  the  billows  sadly  sing. 
Yea,  I  am  the  harbor  mine. 

And  I  am  the  monster  fell 
For  those  who  tread  upon  my  head 
As  they  would  on  a  hidden  hell. 

Give  the  broad  sea  course  to  the  steel-girt  horse 

That  champs  on  the  rolling  foam, 
And  give  the  breadth  of  the  leagueless  tide 

To  the  fleets  that  coastwise  roam  ; 
But  give  me  a  rest  'neath  the  billows'  crest, 

As,  oh,  they  sweetly  sing 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Of  the  world  above  where  they  dream  of  love 
And  the  earth  grows  bright  with  spring. 
For  I  am  the  harbor  mine. 

They  whisper  :  "  Don't  go  there, 
He's  the  avatar  of  the  woe  of  man, 

Of  sorrow  and  despair." 
They  know  not  where  I  hide, 

And  they  dare  not  track  my  den, 
For  I  am  the  flame  of  the  under-deep 

And  I  feed  on  mangled  men. 

Give  the  wind  to  the  merchant-liners, 

The  channel  to  the  fleet ; 
In  the  harbor  mouth,  by  North  by  South, 

For  the  coming  of  their  feet 
I  wait  through  the  weary  hours, 

And  they  search  for  me  in  vain, 
For  I  am  the  hidden  hell  that  sleeps 
In  the  crib  of  the  under-main. 
Oh,  I  am  the  harbor  mine  ! 

The  sea-gulls  come  and  go, 
Above  the  sun  and  the  stars  that  shine 

Smile  on  me  here  below ; 
But  the  ship  that  sails  my  way, 

Ah,  who  shall  count  the  wrack 
Of  the  shriven  plates  as  the  lightning  leaps 
Along  the  magnet's  track  ! 

52 


THE    HARBOR   MINE. 


For  a  keen  eye  in  the  portals, 
With  a  hand  upon  the  key, 
From  the  fortress  waits  to  tell  the  fates 

Of  the  ships  that  sail  to  me. 
The  battle-ship  or  cruiser, 

The  children  of  the  fleet,  — 
To  all  that  come  with  a  welcome  glum 
I'm  here  to  trip  their  feet. 

Yea,  I  am  the  harbor  mine, 

With  the  lightning  in  my  hand, 
And  I  guard  the  ports,  and  hold  the  forts, 

When  the  ships  above  me  land. 
I  rock  on  the  under-ocean, 

In  the  gloom  of  my  deep  salt-den. 
And  I  am  the  hell  that  hidden  waits 
To  feed  on  the  shapes  of  men. 

To  feed  on  the  guns  that  thundered, 

To  feed  on  the  plates  and  bars, 
When  the  ship  sinks  down  in  the  channel 

To  me  and  the  ghosts  and  stars ; 
To  feed  on  the  smashed  projectiles, 

To  feed  on  the  grim  barbette,  — 
All  day  I  wait  in  the  harbor's  gate, 

All  day  my  anchors  fret. 

For  I  am  the  harbor  mine, 
Whose  voice  is  a  muffled  roar, 

53 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Whose  song  is  a  flash  of  the  magnet's  fire 

In  the  opera  of  war. 
And  they  whisper :  "  Don't  go  there, 

For  he  is  a  monster  fell, 
And  ships  must  tread  upon  his  head 

As  they  would  on  a  hidden  hell." 

—  F.McK. 


54 


A   SOLDIER'S    HEART. 


A1THERE  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

His  thought,  his  hope,  and  his  dream, 
When  the  rifles  ring  and  the  bullets  sing, 

And  the  flashing  sabres  gleam  ? 
Oh,  not  on  the  field  of  battle, 

But  far  and  far  away, 
His  heart  is  living  the  old,  old  hopes, 

While  his  sword  is  red  in  the  fray ! 

Where  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

And  what  do  the  bugles  wake, 
And  what  does  the  roar  of  the  cannon  mean 

When  the  hills  beneath  them  shake  ? 
Oh,  not  for  him  the  glory, 

And  the  dash  and  the  crash  of  war, 
But  his  heart  is  away  on  a  mission  gay 

Where  they  hear  no  cannon  roar ! 

And  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier,  — 

A  little  home  on  the  hill, 
A  white-faced  woman,  a  little  child, 

That  stands  by  the  window-sill ; 
A  little  song,  and  a  little  prayer, 

And  a  wonder  in  the  face, 

55 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

And  a  "  God  save  papa,  and  bring  him  back 
In  the  goodness  of  thy  grace  !  " 

And  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier,  — 

Not  on  the  field  of  fight, 
But  steeped  in  the  dream  of  a  saddened  home 

Where  a  window  keeps  its  light, 
That  a  soldier's  feet  may  keep  the  path, 

And  his  way  may  homeward  lead, 
When  under  the  flag  of  the  freedom-land 

He  has  wrought  the  hero's  deed. 

Yea,  there  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier, 

Where  wife  and  baby  are ; 
Though  his  eyes  and  his  will  may  follow 

The  light  of  the  battle  star ; 
Though  his  hand  may  swing  the  sabre, 

And  his  bayonet  charge  the  foe, 
The  soldier's  heart  is  away,  away, 

In  the  home  where  they  miss  him  so  ! 

—  Baltimore  News. 


THE   SONG   OF   THEN   AND   NOW. 


JJong  of  $(Jen 

(^)H,  they  sang  a  song  of  Wind  and  Sail 
In  the  days  of  heave  and  haul, 

Of  the  weather-gage,  of  tack  and  sheet, 

When  the  anchor  rose  to  the  tramp  of  feet, 
And  the  click  of  the  capstan  pawl. 
They  sang  brave  songs  of  the  old  broadsides, 

Long  Tom,  and  the  carronade ! 
Hi !  cutlass  and  pike,  as  the  great  sides  strike,  — 

Ho  !  the  cheers  of  the  ne'er-afraid ! 
For  they  cheered  as  they  fought,  did  those  sailor- 
men; 

They  stripped  to  the  buff  for  the  fray,  — 
It  was  steel  to  steel,  it  was  eye  to  eye,  — 
Yard-arm  to  yard-arm  against  the  sky ! 

All  ye  boarders,  up  and  away  / 

They  sang  of  the  men  on  the  quarter-deck,  — 

Brave  deeds  of  those  captains  bold ! 
Never  a  name  but  was  known  to  fame, 

And  was  praised  in  the  days  of  old. 
Let  us  sing  the  song  of  the  fighting  men, 

The  sail  and  the  plunging  bow,  — 
The  good  old  song  of  the  Sea  and  the  Ship, 

The  song  of  the  Then  and  Now ! 

57 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Gone  are  the  days  of  the  heave  and  haul 

(Think  ye  our  blood  has  thinned?); 
We're  slaves  of  steam  and  science, 

Not  toilers  of  the  wind  ! 
Oh,  the  cable  comes  in  to  the  cable  tiers, 

And  no  one  lifts  a  hand ; 
The  click  of  a  bell  sounds  out,  "  That's  well !  " 

And  the  engines  understand ! 
We  come  in  'gainst  the  wind  and  the  tide  at 
night, 

And  go  out  'gainst  the  storm  in  the  morn. 
(But  think  ye  our  arms  have  lost  their  might  ? 

Think  ye  our  locks  are  shorn  ?  ) 

Past  are  the  days  of  Wind  and  Sail, 

We've  cast  off  the  thrall  of  the  sea, 
We  take  no  heed  of  the  weather-gage,  — 

No  fear  of  the  rocks  on  the  lee. 
We  can  come  and  go  in  the  fiercest  blow 

(It  is  food  for  our  roaring  fires ! ), 
For  the  great  screw  churns,  and  the  huge  hull 
turns 

As  the  Soul  of  the  Ship  desires ! 
But  the  spirit,  the  strength,  and  the  will  are  there, 

The  sea  has  not  changed  her  men ; 
The  ship  must  do,  and  the  men  must  dare, 

And  Now  is  the  same  as  Then ! 

58 


THE    SONG   OF  THEN   AND   NOW. 


They  raked  and  they  fought  at  pistol-shot,  — 

We  fight  at  two  miles  and  more. 
(Think  ye  their  dangers  discount  ours, 

Ye  men  of  books  ashore  ? ) 
The  turret  turns  and  the  guns  are  trained,  — 

But  not  in  the  older  way ; 
The  conning-tower  is  the  one-man  power 

And  the  Soul  of  the  Ship  holds  sway. 
But  in  sponson,  turret,  and  great  barbette, 

Or  below  in  the  noxious  air, 
Are  brave  forms  covered  with  blood  and  sweat, 

The  fighting  men  are  there ! 

There  are  dangers  our  father  wot  not  of 

(In  the  days  of  wind  and  sail) : 
The  unseen  foes  and  the  sighted  Death, 

With  the  foam  along  the  rail. 
The  channels  are  filled  with  uncouth  shapes 

That  lurk  below  in  the  brine,  — 
The  force  of  fifty  ships  is  there 

In  the  sullen,  sunken  mine ! 
Tho'  no  orders  come  from  the  quarter-deck, 

Hear  the  rip  of  the  rapid  fire  ! 
Full  speed  ahead,  astern,  or  check, 

At  a  spark  from  the  semaphore  wire ! 

And  the  ship  she  trembles  from  top  to  keel,  — 
Tho'  she  rates  twelve  thousand  tons ! 


59 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


And  her  scorched  decks  leap  with  a  thundering 
throb 

'Neath  the  roar  of  her  twelve-inch  guns  ! 
Dented,  and  tortured,  and  pierced,  she  stands 

The  blows  on  her  ringing  plates ; 
Grimy  and  blank  she  signals  back 

To  the  flags  of  her  fighting  mates. 
Hear  the  grinding  crash  from  her  armored  prow, 

Hear  the  rattling  Colts  from  the  mast? 
Young  «  Steel  Flanks  "  of  the  living  Now 

Is  "  Old  Ironsides  "  of  the  past ! 

Oh,  then  here's  to  the  men,  where'er  they  be,  — 

The  men  of  steel  and  steam ! 
They're  the  same  old  stock  from  the  parent 
block,— 

When  they  welcomed  the  wind  abeam. 
Tho'  one  shot  may  equal  a  broadside's  weight, 

One  blow  may  decide  the  fight, 
They  serve  their  guns,  they  aim  them  straight, 

And  the  Flag  will  be  kept  in  sight ! 
The  old  captains  bold,  —  cocked  hats  and  gold, - 

Were  made  for  their  country's  hour, 
And  the  Soul  of  the  Ship  proclaims  the  mould 

Of  the  mind  in  the  conning-tower ! 


60 


THE    SONG   OF   THEN   AND   NOW. 


Let  us  sing  the  song  of  Wind  and  Sail,  — 

Brave  deeds  of  the  captains  bold ! 
Never  a  name  but  was  known  to  fame, 

And  was  praised  in  the  days  of  old. 
Let  us  sing  the  song  of  the  armored  ship, 

With  the  ramming,  roaring  bow ! 
For  the  Flag  is  the  same,  the  men  are  the  same, 

'Tis  the  song  of  Then  and  Now ! 

— James  Barnes. 


61 


THE   REVOLUTIONARY  WAR 


ril 

S3     S 

3 

~u/  *•< 

g  H 


>» 

Eh     ,0 
O      *n 


s 
S 

pa    c« 


WARREN'S   ADDRESS. 


QTAND  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my 

braves ! 

Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 

Ask  it,  —  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  —  they're  afire ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it !     From  the  vale 
On  they  come  !  —  and  will  ye  quail  ? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 
Die  we  may,  —  and  die  we  must ; 
But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 
Be  consign'd  so  well, 

65 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


As  where  Heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyr'd  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head 
Of  his  deeds  to  tell  ? 

—  John  Pierpont. 


66 


NATHAN   HALE. 


n  fgafe. 


*T*O  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by  ; 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 

And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp  ; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 
He  scans  the  tented  line  ; 

And  he  counts  the  battery  guns, 
By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine  ; 

And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 
Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 
It  meets  his  eager  glance  ; 

And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 
Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance,  — 

6? 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 
On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  still  clang, 

And  terror  in  the  sound ! 
For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 

In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found ; 
With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 

The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  and  steady  brow, 

He  listens  to  his  doom ; 
In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 

Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom ; 
But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 

He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  kneels  upon  the  sod ; 
And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  word  of  God ! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree ; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty ; 

68 


NATHAN   HALE. 


And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 
His  spent  wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message-words, 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 

A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 

A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn ; 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  HALE  shall  burn ! 

—  Francis  M.  Finch. 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


£onfinenfdte, 


T  N  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot  ; 
When  the  files 
Of  the  isles 

From  the  smoky  night-encampment  bore  the  banner 
of  the  rampant 

Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the  roll  of 
the  drummer, 

Through  the  morn  ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal 

Stood  our  sires  ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires  ; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 

70 


THE   OLD   CONTINENTALS. 


Swept  the  strong  battle    breakers   o'er   the   green 
sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain  ; 

And  louder,  louder,  louder  cracked  the  black  gun- 
powder, 

Cracking  amain  ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  Saint  George's 

Cannoneers  ; 

And  the  "  villainous  saltpetre  " 

Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears  ; 

As  the  swift 

Storm  drift, 

With  hot,  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guard's 
clangor 

On  our  flanks, 

Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned  the  old-fashioned 
fire 

Through  the  ranks  ! 


Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white,  infernal 

Powder  cloud  ; 
And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper  jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the 
leaden 

Rifle  breath ; 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder  roared  the  iron  six- 
pounder 

Hurling  death  ! 
—  Guy  Humphrey  Me  Master. 


COLUMBIA. 

Cofum6ia. 

Written  during  the  author's  service  as  an  army  chaplain,  1777-78. 

/COLUMBIA,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of 

the  skies ; 
Thy  genius  commands  thee ;  with  rapture 

behold, 

While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendor  unfold ! 
Thy  reign  is  the  last,  and  the  noblest  of  time, 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime  ; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy 

name, 
Be  freedom,  and  science,  and  virtue  thy  fame. 


To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire ; 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities  in  fire ; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend ; 
A  world  is  thy  realm :  for  a  world  be  thy  laws, 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause ; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis,  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the 
skies. 


73 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Fair  science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar, 
And  the  east  see  the  morn  hide  the  beams  of 

her  star. 

New  bards,  and  new  sages,  unrivalled  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguished,  when  time  is  no  more ; 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed, 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind ; 
Here,  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport  shall 

bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  of  spring. 

Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend, 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend ; 
The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire ; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners 

refined, 

And  virtue's  bright  image,  instamped  on  the  mind, 
With  peace  and  soft  rapture  shall  teach  life  to 

glow, 
And  light  up  a  smile  in  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire  and  the  ocean  obey ; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold, 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices 
and  gold. 

74 


COLUMBIA. 


As  the  day-spring  unbounded,  thy  splendor  shall 

flow, 

And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow ; 
While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurled, 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war  and  give  peace  to  the 

world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'er- 

spread, 

From  war's  dread  confusion  I  pensively  strayed, 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired ; 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur ;  the  thunders 

expired ; 

Perfumes  as  of  Eden  flowed  sweetly  along, 
And  a  voice  as  of  angels  enchantingly  sung : 
"  Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the 

skies." 

—  Timothy  Divight. 


75 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


of  (gtarion'g  (JJUn. 


/^\UR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 
^^^     Our  leader  frank  and  bold  ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea  ; 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 
Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  ; 
When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 


SONG   OF   MARION'S    MEN. 


And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 
Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil ; 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and 
shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads,  — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 

Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night  wind 

That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp,  — 

A  moment,  —  and  away 

77 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 
Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


HAIL,  COLUMBIA. 


if,  Cofumfiia. 


T  T  AIL,  Columbia  !  happy  land  ! 

Hail,  ye  heroes  !  heaven-born  band  ! 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause^ 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  causf 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won  ; 
Let  independence  be  your  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost, 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

CHORUS. 

Firm  united  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  liberty, 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  patriots,  rise  once  more, 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore  ; 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  impious  hand 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize  ; 

79 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


While  offering  peace,  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust 
That  truth  and  justice  may  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail.  —  CHO. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  fame ! 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause ! 

Ring  thro'  the  world  with  loud  applause  ! 

Let  every  clime  to  freedom  dear 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear ; 

With  equal  skill,  with  steady  pow'r, 

He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 

Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 

The  happier  time  of  honest  peace.  —  CHO. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands ! 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  was  beat ! 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  was  beat ! 
But  armed  in  virtue,  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
When  gloom  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty.  —  CHO. 

— Joseph  Hopkinson. 

80 


WAR    OF    1812 


OLD   IRONSIDES. 


A  Y,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down, 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 


Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ! 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave : 

83 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 

Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail ; 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


84 


THE   STAR   SPANGLED   BANNER. 


ifar  JJpangfefc  Banner. 

/^\H,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the   twilight's 

last  gleaming? 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  thro'  the  peril- 
ous fight 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly 

streaming  ? 

And  the  rockets'  red  glare  and  bombs  bursting  in  air 
Gave  proof  thro'  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still 

there ; 

Oh,  say,  does  that  Star  Spangled  Banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave  ? 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  say,  does  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  thro'  the  mist  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host   in   dread   silence 

reposes, 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er   the   towering 

steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 

85 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  in  the  stream ; 
'Tis   the   Star   Spangled    Banner,  oh,  long   may  it 

wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave —  CHO. 


And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 

'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 
A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more  ? 
Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps' 

pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave ; 
And   the   Star    Spangled    Banner   in   triumph   doth 

wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave.  —  CHO. 


Oh,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  war's  desola- 
tion ; 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven-res- 
cued land 

Praise  the  Power  that  made  and  preserved  us  a 
nation ! 

86 


THE    STAR   SPANGLED   BANNER. 


Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust ! " 
And  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the 
brave. —  CHO. 

—  Francis  Scott  Key. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


gRITANNIA'S  gallant  streamers 

Float  proudly  o'er  the  tide, 
And  fairly  wave  Columbia's  stripes, 

In  battle  side  by  side. 
And  ne'er  did  bolder  seamen  meet, 

Where  ocean's  surges  pour ; 
O'er  the  tide  now  they  ride, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

When  Yankee  meets  the  Briton, 

Whose  blood  congenial  flows, 
By  Heav'n  created  to  be  friends, 

By  fortune  rendered  foes ; 
Hard  then  must  be  the  battle  fray, 

Ere  well  the  fight  is  o'er ; 
Now  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  her  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Still,  still,  for  noble  England 
Bold  D'Acres's  streamers  fly ; 

88 


YANKEE   THUNDERS. 


And  for  Columbia,  gallant  Hull's 

As  proudly  and  as  high ; 
Now  louder  rings  the  battle  din, 

And  thick  the  volumes  pour ; 
Still  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Why  lulls  Britannia's  thunder, 

That  waked  the  wat'ry  war  ? 
Why  stays  the  gallant  Guerrttre, 

Whose  streamers  waved  so  fair  ? 
That  streamer  drinks  the  ocean's  wave, 

That  warrior's  fight  is  o'er ! 
Still  they  ride,  side  by  side, 

While  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar, 
While  the  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  the  bell'wing  thunders  roar. 

Hark !  'tis  the  Briton's  lee  gun ! 

Ne'er  bolder  warrior  kneeled  ! 
And  ne'er  to  gallant  mariners 

Did  braver  seamen  yield. 
Proud  be  the  sires,  whose  hardy  boys 

Then  fell  to  fight  no  more ; 

89 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


With  the  brave,  'mid  the  wave, 
When  the  cannon's  thunders  roar, 

Their  spirits  then  shall  trim  the  blast, 
And  swell  the  thunder's  roar. 

Vain  were  the  cheers  of  Britons, 

Their  hearts  did  vainly  swell, 
Where  virtue,  skill,  and  bravery 

With  gallant  Morris  fell. 
That  heart  so  well  in  battle  tried, 

Along  the  Moorish  shore, 
And  again  o'er  the  main, 

When  Columbia's  thunders  roar, 
Shall  prove  its  Yankee  spirit  true, 

When  Columbia's  thunders  roar. 

Hence  be  our  floating  bulwark 

Those  oaks  our  mountains  yield ; 
Tis  mighty  Heaven's  plain  decree,  — 

Then  take  the  wat'ry  field ! 
To  ocean's  farthest  barrier  then 

Your  whit'ning  sail  shall  pour ; 
Safe  they'll  ride  o'er  the  tide, 

While  Columbia's  thunders  roar, 
While  her  cannon's  fire  is  flashing  fast, 

And  her  Yankee  thunders  roar. 


OUR  NAVY. 


S~\  N  wings  of  glory,  swift  as  light, 
^^^     The  sound  of  battle  came, 
The  gallant  Hull  in  glorious  fight 
Has  won  the  wreaths  of  fame. 

CHORUS. 
Let  brave  Columbia's  noble  band 

With  hearts  united  rise, 
Swear  to  protect  their  native  land 

Till  sacred  freedom  dies. 

Let  brave  Decatur's  dauntless  breast 

With  patriot  ardor  glow, 
And  in  the  garb  of  vict'ry  drest 

Triumphant  blast  the  foe.  —  CHO. 

And  Rogers  with  his  gallant  crew 

O'er  the  wide  ocean  ride, 
To  prove  their  loyal  spirits  true, 

And  crush  old  Albion's  pride.  —  CHO. 

Then  hail  another  Guerriere  there, 
With  roaring  broadsides  hail ; 

And  while  the  thunder  rends  the  air 
See  Briton's  sons  turn  pale.  —  CHO. 


POEMS    OF    AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"  The  day  is  ours,  my  boys,  huzza !  " 
The  great  commander  cries, 

While  all  responsive  roar  huzza  ! 

With  pleasure-sparkling  eyes.  —  CHO. 

Thus  shall  Columbia's  fame  be  spread, 
Her  heaven-born  eagle  soar ; 

Her  deeds  of  glory  shall  be  read 
When  tyrants  are  no  more.  —  CHO. 


92 


THE   CONSTITUTION'S    LAST   FIGHT. 


Constitution'* 


A    YANKEE  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  —  • 

Constitution,  where  ye  bound  for  ? 
Wherever,  my  lad,  there's  fight  to  be  had 
Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

Our  captain  was  married  in  Boston  town 

And  sailed  next  day  to  sea  ; 
For  all  must  go  when  the  State  says  so  ; 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  sailed  we. 

"  Now,  what  shall  I  bring  for  a  bridal  gift 
When  my  home-bound  pennant  flies  ? 

The  rarest  that  be  on  land  or  sea 
It  shall  be  my  lady's  prize." 

"  There's  never  a  prize  on  sea  or  land 

Could  bring  such  joy  to  me 
As  my  true  love  sound  and  homeward  bound 

With  a  king's  ship  under  his  lee." 

The  Western  ocean  is  wide  and  deep, 

And  wild  its  tempests  blow, 
But  bravely  rides  "  Old  Ironsides," 

A-cruising  to  and  fro. 

93 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


We  cruised  to  the  east  and  we  cruised  to  north, 

And  southing  far  went  we, 
And  at  last  off  Cape  de  Verd  we  raised 

Two  frigates  sailing  free. 

Oh,  God  made  man,  and  man  made  ships, 

But  God  makes  very  few 
Like  him  who  sailed  our  ship  that  day, 

And  fought  her,  one  to  two. 

He  gained  the  weather-gage  of  both, 

He  held  them  both  a-lee ; 
And  gun  for  gun,  till  set  of  sun, 

He  spoke  them  fair  and  free ; 

Till  the  night-fog  fell  on  spar  and  sail, 

And  ship,  and  sea,  and  shore, 
And  our  only  aim  was  the  bursting  flame 

And  the  hidden  cannon's  roar. 

Then  a  long  rift  in  the  mist  showed  up 

The  stout  Cyane,  close-hauled 
To  swing  in  our  wake  and  our  quarter  rake, 

And  a  boasting  Briton  bawled : 

"  Starboard  and  larboard,  we've  got  him  fast 
Where  his  heels  won't  take  him  through ; 

Let  him  luff  or  wear,  he'll  find  us  there,  — 
Ho,  Yankee,  which  will  you  do  ?  " 

94 


THE   CONSTITUTION'S    LAST   FIGHT. 


We  did  not  luff  and  we  did  not  wear, 

But  braced  our  topsails  back, 
Till  the  sternway  drew  us  fair  and  true 

Broadsides  athwart  her  track. 

Athwart  her  track  and  across  her  bows 

We  raked  her  fore  and  aft, 
And  out  of  the  fight  and  into  the  night 

Drifted  the  beaten  craft. 

The  slow  Levant  came  up  too  late ; 

No  need  had  we  to  stir; 
Her  decks  we  swept  with  fire,  and  kept 

The  flies  from  troubling  her. 

We  raked  her  again,  and  her  flag  came  down, 
The  haughtiest  flag  that  floats,— 

And  the  lime-juice  dogs  lay  there  like  logs, 
With  never  a  bark  in  their  throats. 

With  never  a  bark  and  never  a  bite, 

But  only  an  oath  to  break, 
As  we  squared  away  for  Praya  Bay 

With  our  prizes  in  our  wake. 

Parole  they  gave  and  parole  they  broke, 
What  matters  the  cowardly  cheat, 

If  the  captain's  bride  was  satisfied 
With  the  one  prize  laid  at  her  feet  ? 

95 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  — 
Constitution,  where  ye  bound  for  ? 

Wherever  the  British  prizes  be, 

Though  it's  one  to  two,  or  one  to  three,  — 

"  Old  Ironsides  "  means  victory, 
Acrost  the  Western  ocean. 

— James  Jeffrey  Roche. 


96 


THE    WAR    WITH    MEXICO 


THE   DEFENCE   OF  THE   ALAMO. 


©efence  of  f$e  $famo. 

QANTA  ANA  came  storming,  as  a  storm  might 

come  ; 
There  was  rumble  of  cannon  ;  there  was  rattle  of 

blade  ; 
There  was  cavalry,  infantry,  bugle,  and  drum,  — 

Full  seven  thousand,  in  pomp  and  parade, 
The  chivalry,  flower  of  Mexico  ; 

And  a  gaunt  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo  ! 

And  thirty  lay  sick,  and  some  were  shot  through  ; 
For  the  siege  had  been  bitter,  and  bloody,  and 

long. 

"  Surrender,  or  die  !  "  —  "  Men,  what  vj\\\you  do  ?  " 
And  Travis,  great  Travis,  drew  sword,  quick  and 

strong; 
Drew  a  line  at  his  feet  ..."  Will  you  come  ?     Will 

you  go  ? 
7  die  with  my  wounded,  in  the  Alamo." 

The  Bowie  gasped,  "  Lead  me  over  that  line  !  " 
Then  Crockett,  one  hand  to  the  sick,  one  hand  to 
his  gun, 

Crossed  with  him  ;  then  never  a  word  or  a  sign 
Till  all,  sick  or  well,  all,  all  save  but  one, 

99 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


One  man.      Then  a  woman  stepped,  praying,  and 

slow 
Across  ;  to  die  at  her  post  in  the  Alamo. 

Then  that  one  coward  fled,  in  the  night,  in  that  night 
When  all  men  silently  prayed  and  thought 

Of  home  ;  of  to-morrow ;  of  God  and  the  right, 
Till  dawn :  and  with  dawn  came  Travis's  cannon- 
shot, 

In  answer  to  insolent  Mexico, 

From  the  old  bell-tower  of  the  Alamo. 

Then  came  Santa  Ana;  a  crescent  of  flame  ! 

Then  the  red  "  escalade  ;  "  then  the  fight  hand  to 

hand; 
Such  an  unequal  fight  as  never  had  name 

Since  the  Persian  hordes  butchered  that  doomed 

Spartan  band. 
All  day,  —  all  day  and  all  night,  and  the  morning  ?  so 

slow 
Through  the  battle  smoke  mantling  the  Alamo. 

Now  silence  !    Such  silence  !    Two  thousand  lay  dead 
In  a  crescent  outside  !    And  within?    Not  a  breath 

Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman,  with  gory  gashed  head, 
All  alone,  all  alone  there,  waiting  for  death  ; 

And  she  but  a  nurse.     Yet  when  shall  we  know 
Another  like  this  of  the  Alamo  ? 

100 


THE   DEFENCE   OF  THE   ALA.MO 

Shout  "  Victory,  victory,  victory  ho  !  " 

I  say  'tis  not  always  to  the  hosts  that  win; 

I  say  that  the  victory,  high  or  low, 

Is  given  the  hero  who  grapples  with  sin, 

Or  legion  or  single ;  just  asking  to  know 
When  duty  fronts  death  in  his  Alamo. 

— Joaquin  Miller. 


101 


POEMS    OF. -AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


.     (glonfete^ 

"XXrE  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day ; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  with  us  been  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hail'd 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quail'd 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  waiPd 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoil'd  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  the  strongest  lay, 
We  swoop'd  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Storm'd  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 


MONTEREY. 


Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play : 
Where  orange-boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  press'd 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day,  — 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confess'd 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 

—  Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 


103 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


T^ROM  the  Rio  Grande's  waters  to  the  icy  lakes  of 
Maine, 

Let  all  exult !  for  we  have  met  the  enemy  again ; 

Beneath  their  stern  old  mountains  we  have  met  them 
in  their  pride, 

And  rolled  from  Buena  Vista  back  the  battle's  bloody 
tide ; 

Where  the  enemy  came  surging  swift,  like  the  Missis- 
sippi's flood, 

And  the  reaper,  Death,  with  strong  arms  swung  his 
sickle  red  with  blood. 

Santana  boasted  loudly  that,  before  two  hours  were 

past, 
His  Lancers  through  Saltillo  should  pursue  us  fierce 

and  fast :  — 

On  comes  his  solid  infantry,  line  marching  after  line ; 
Lo !  their  great  standards  in  the  sun  like  sheets  of 

silver  shine : 
With  thousands  upon  thousands,  —  yea,  with  more 

than  three  to  one,  — 
Their  forests  of  bright  bayonets  fierce-flashing  in  the 

sun. 


104 


BUENA   VISTA. 


Lo !  Guanajuato's  regiment ;  Morelos's  boasted  corps, 

And  Guadalajara's  chosen  troops !  —  all  veterans  tried 
before. 

Lo!  galloping  upon  the  right  four  thousand  lances 
gleam, 

Where,  floating  in  the  morning  wind,  their  blood-red 
pennons  stream ; 

And  here  his  stern  artillery  climbs  up  the  broad  pla- 
teau: 

To-day  he  means  to  strike  at  us  an  overwhelming 
blow. 

Now,  Wool,  hold  strongly  to  the  heights !  for  lo  !  the 
mighty  tide 

Comes,  thundering  like  an  avalanche,  deep,  terrible, 
and  wide. 

Now,  Illinois,  stand  steady !  Now,  Kentucky,  to 
their  aid ! 

For  a  portion  of  our  line,  alas!  is  broken  and  dis- 
mayed : 

Great  bands  of  shameless  fugitives  are  fleeing  from 
the  field, 

And  the  day  is  lost,  if  Illinois  and  brave  Kentucky 
yield. 

One  of  O'Brien's  guns  is  gone  !  —  On,  on  their  masses 

drift, 
Till  their  cavalry  and  infantry  outflank  us  on  the  left ; 

105 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Our  light  troops,  driven  from  the  hills,  retreat  in  wild 
dismay, 

And  round  us  gather,  thick  and  dark,  the  Mexican 
array. 

Santana  thinks  the  day  is  gained ;  for,  now  approach- 
ing near, 

Minon's  dark  cloud  of  Lancers  sternly  menaces  our 
rear. 

Now,  Lincoln,  gallant  gentleman,  lies  dead  upon  the 

field, 
Who  strove  to  stay  those  cravens,  when  before  the 

storm  they  reeled. 
Fire,  Washington,  fire  fast  and  true !    Fire,  Sherman, 

fast  and  far ! 
Lo !  Bragg  comes  thundering  to  the  front,  to  breast 

the  adverse  war ! 
Santana  thinks  the  day  is  gained  !  On,  on  his  masses 

crowd, 
And  the  roar  of  battle  swells  again  more  terrible  and 

loud. 

Not  yet !  Our  brave  old  general  comes  to  regain  the 

day; 

Kentucky,  to  the  rescue  !     Mississippi,  to  the  fray ! 
Again  our  line  advances !     Gallant  Davis  fronts  the 

foe, 

106 


BUENA   VISTA. 


And  back  before  his  rifles,  in  red  waves,  the  Lancers 
flow. 

Upon  them  yet  once  more,  ye  brave  !  The  avalanche 
is  stayed  ! 

Back  roll  the  Aztec  multitudes,  all  broken  and  dis- 
mayed. 

Ride,  May  !  —  To  Buena  Vista !  for  the  Lancers  gain 
our  rear, 

And  we  have  few  troops  there  to  check  their  vehe- 
ment career. 

Charge,  Arkansas  !  Kentucky,  charge !  Yell,  Porter, 
Vaughan,  are  slain, 

But  the  shattered  troops  cling  desperately  unto  that 
crimsoned  plain ; 

Till,  with  the  Lancers  intermixed,  pursuing  and  pur- 
sued, 

Westward,  in  combat  hot  and  close,  drifts  off  the 
multitude. 

And  May  comes  charging  from  the  hills  with  his 
ranks  of  flaming  steel, 

While  shattered  with  a  sudden  fire,  the  foe  already 
reel: 

They  flee  amain  !  —  Now  to  the  left,  to  stay  the  tor- 
rent there, 

Or  else  the  day  is  surely  lost,  in  horror  and  despair ! 

107 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


For  their  hosts  pour  swiftly  onward,  like  a  river  in 

the  spring, 
Our  flank  is  turned,  and  on  our  left  their  cannon 

thundering. 

Now,  good  Artillery  !  bold  Dragoons  !  Steady,  brave 

hearts,  be  calm ! 
Through  rain,  cold  hail,  and  thunder,  now  nerve  each 

gallant  arm ! 
What  though  their  shot  fall  round  us  here,  yet  thicker 

than  the  hail  ? 
We'll  stand  against  them,  as  the  rock  stands  firm 

against  the  gale. 
Lo  !  their  battery  is  silenced  !  but  our  iron  sleet  still 

showers : 
They  falter,  halt,  retreat !  —  Hurrah !  the  glorious  day 

is  ours ! 


In  front,  too,  has  the  fight  gone  well,  where  upon  gal- 
lant Lane, 

And  on  stout  Mississippi,  the  thick  Lancers  charged 
in  vain : 

Ah  !  brave  Third  Indiana  !  you  have  nobly  wiped 
away 

The  reproach  that  through  another  corps  befell  your 
State  to-day ; 

108 


BUENA    VISTA. 


For  back,  all  broken  and  dismayed,  before  your  storm 

of  fire, 
Santana's  boasted  chivalry,  a  shattered  wreck,  retire. 

Now  charge   again,   Santana!  or  the  day  is  surely 

lost,  — 
For  back,  like   broken  waves,  along  our  left  your 

hordes  are  tossed. 
Still  faster  roar  his  batteries, — his   whole   reserve 

moves  on ; 
More  work  remains  for  us  to  do,  ere  the  good  fight  is 

won. 
Now  for  your  wives  and  children,  men !    Stand  steady 

yet  once  more ! 
Fight  for  your  lives  and  honors !    Fight  as  you  never 

fought  before ! 

Ho !  Hardin  breasts  it  bravely !  and  heroic  Bissell 
there 

Stands  firm  before  the  storm  of  balls  that  fill  the  as- 
tonished air : 

The  Lancers  dash  upon  them,  too !  The  foe  swarm 
ten  to  one : 

Hardin  is  slain ;  McKee  and  Clay  the  last  time  see 
the  sun ; 

And  many  another  gallant  heart,  in  that  last  desper- 
ate fray, 

109 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Grew  cold,  its  last  thought  turning  to  its  loved  ones 
far  away. 

Speed,  speed,  Artillery  !  to  the  front !  —  for  the  hurri- 
cane of  fire 

Crushes  those  noble  regiments,  reluctant  to  retire ! 

Speed  swiftly !  Gallop !  Ah  !  they  come  !  Again 
Bragg  climbs  the  ridge, 

And  his  grape  sweeps  down  the  swarming  foe,  as  a 
strong  man  moweth  sedge  ; 

Thus  baffled  in  their  last  attack,  compelled  perforce 
to  yield, 

Still  menacing  in  firm  array,  their  columns  leave  the 
field. 

The  guns  still  roared  at  intervals ;  but  silence  fell  at 
last, 

And  on  the  dead  and  dying  came  the  evening  shad- 
ows fast. 

And  then  above  the  mountains  rose  the  cold  moon's 
silver  shield, 

And  patiently  and  pitying  she  looked  upon  the  field. 

While  careless  of  his  wounded,  and  neglectful  of  his 
dead, 

Despairingly  and  sullenly  by  night  Santana  fled. 

And  thus  on  Buena  Vista's  heights  a  long  day's  work 
was  done, 

no 


BUENA   VISTA. 


And  thus  our  brave  old  general  another  battle  won. 
Still,  still  our  glorious  banner  waves,  unstained  by 

flight  or  shame, 
And  the  Mexicans  among  their  hills  still  tremble  at 

our  name. 
So,  honor  unto  those  that  stood !     Disgrace  to  those 

that  fled ! 
And  everlasting  glory  unto  Buena  Vista's  dead  ! 

—  Albert  Pike. 


in 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


of 


'y  HE  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ! 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread  ; 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms, 
No  braying  horn,  or  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 
Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed  ; 

Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 
Is  now  their  martial  shroud  ; 

And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 
The  red  stains  from  each  brow  ; 

112 


THE   BIVOUAC    OF   THE   DEAD. 


And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 
Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  passed ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal, 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  nevermore  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  Northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "Victory  or  death." 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain, 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldered  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 

"3 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 
That  frowned  o'er  that  dark  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound, 

Along  the  heedless  air ; 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave ; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil, 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield. 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead ! 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave. 
Nor  shall  your  story  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 

114 


THE   BIVOUAC    OF   THE    DEAD. 

Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 
Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 

—  Theodore  O'Hara. 


THE   CIVIL   WAR 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT. 


jjonafljan's   feamenf   for  4& 
Carofine. 

Written  in  December,  1860,  when  South  Carolina  adopted  the  Ordi- 
nance of  Secession. 

CHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and 

pride,— 

Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side  ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's  glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch ; 

But  we  said:  "  She's  a  beauty,  —  she  does  not  mean 
much." 

We  have  scowled  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent 
threat ; 

But  Friendship  still  whispered :  "  Forgive  and  for- 
get." 

Has  our  love  all  died  out?  Have  its  altars  grown 
cold? 

119 


POEMS    OF    AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  fore- 
told? 

Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with  their 

spoil, 

Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from  their 

caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord   of  the 

waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife !     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  in  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky ; 

Man  breaks  not  the  medal  when  God  cuts  the  die ! 

Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  fate  that  can  never  be  won ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world ! 

120 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT. 


Go,  then,  our  rash  sister,  afar  and  aloof,  — 

Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof  ; 

But  when  your  heart   aches,   and   your   feet  have 

grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door ! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


121 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(JJlen  of  f0e  (ftorffl  anb 

Published  in  the  World  after  the  fall  of  Fort  Sumter. 

TV/T  EN  of  the  North  and  West, 

Wake  in  your  might. 
Prepare,  as  the  rebels  have  done, 

For  the  fight  ! 

You  cannot  shrink  from  the  test  ; 
Rise  !     Men  of  the  North  and  West  ! 


They  have  torn  down  your  banner  of  stars ; 

They  have  trampled  the  laws ; 
They  have  stifled  the  freedom  they  hate, 

For  no  cause ! 

Do  you  love  it  or  slavery  best  ? 
Speak  !     Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

They  strike  at  the  life  of  the  State  : 

Shall  the  murder  be  done  ? 
They  cry  :  "  We  are  two ! "     And  you  ? 

"  We  are  one  !  " 

You  must  meet  them,  then,  breast  to  breast 
On  !     Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

122 


MEN  OF  THE  NORTH  AND  WEST. 

Not  with  words ;  they  laugh  them  to  scorn, 

And  tears  they  despise ; 
But  with  swords  in  your  hands,  and  death 

In  your  eyes ! 

Strike  home  !  leave  to  God  all  the  rest ; 
Strike !     Men  of  the  North  and  West ! 

—  Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


123 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


(glote 


^T  O  more  words  ; 

Try  it  with  your  swords  ! 
Try  it  with  the  arms  of  your  bravest  and  your 

best! 

You  are  proud  of  your  manhood,  now  put  it  to 
the  test  ; 

Not  another  word  ; 
Try  it  by  the  sword  ! 

No  more  notes  ; 
Try  it  by  the  throats 
Of  the  cannon  that  will  roar  till  the  earth  and 

air  be  shaken  ; 

For  they  speak  what  they  mean,  and  they  can- 
not be  mistaken  ; 
No  more  doubt  ; 
Come,  —  fight  it  out  ! 

No  child's  play  ! 

Waste  not  a  day; 

Serve  out  the  deadliest  weapons  that  you  know  ; 
Let  them  pitilessly  hail  on  the  faces  of  the  foe  ; 

No  blind  strife  ; 

Waste  not  one  life. 


124 


NO   MORE   WORDS. 


You  that  in  the  front 
Bear  the  battle's  brunt  — 
When  the  sun  gleams  at  dawn  on  the  bayonets 

abreast, 

Remember  'tis  for  government  and  country  you 
contest ; 

For  love  of  all  you  guard, 
Stand,  and  strike  hard ! 

You  at  home  that  stay 
From  danger  far  away, 
Leave  not  a  jot  to  chance,  while  you  rest  in 

quiet  ease ; 

Quick  !  forge  the  bolts  of  death  ;   quick !  ship 
them  o'er  the  seas ; 

If  War's  feet  are  lame, 
Yours  will  be  the  blame. 

You,  my  lads,  abroad, 
"  Steady  !  "  be  your  word  ; 
You,  at  home,  be  the  anchor  of  your  soldiers 

young  and  brave  ; 

Spare  no  cost,  none  is  lost,  that  may  strengthen 
or  may  save ; 

Sloth  were  sin  and  shame  ; 
Now  play  out  the  game  ! 

—  Franklin  Lushington. 

I25 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


T  T  is  good-by, 

My  lad? 
No,  I'll  not  cry. 
Has  the  time  come  ? 
The  bugle-call  from  the  sea-wall, 
The  tap  of  drum  ? 
My  tears  are  dry. 

Rest  your  head  here, 

My  lad, 

Close  to  me,  dear ; 
Why  do  you  stare  ? 

Have  pain  and  care  made  me  less  fair  ? 
Are  my  lips  white  with  fear  ? 
Hark !  how  they  cheer 
Down  in  the  Square  there! 

What  do  they  care, 
My  lad, 

For  this  brown  hair 
That  I  love  so  ? 
Their  drums'  long  roll  will  crush  my 

soul  — 

Ah,  God !  don't  go !  — 
I  cannot  bear  — 

126 


THE   TROOP -SHIP   SAILS. 

i 

There,  I'll  be  still, 

My  lad, 
Truly  I  will ; 
My  tears  are  spent. 
Which  regiment  will  next  be  sent? 
Does  every  bullet  kill  ? 
Hold  me  until 
The  call  is  urgent !   • 

Who  spoke  your  name, 

My  lad? 

The  summons  came 
Out  of  the  crowd  ! 
Oh,  hold  me,  lad !  fold  me,  lad ! 
Their  flag's  a  shroud 
To  bury  shame ! 

Have  they  begun, 

My  lad  ? 

See,  the  troops  run  ! 
Your  eyes  are  wet ; 
You  are  so  quiet;  is  there  time  yet? 
God  !  it's  the  signal  gun ! 
Kiss  me,  —  just  one. 
Run  with  your  musket ! 

—  R.  W.  Chambers. 


127 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(~\  STAR-SPANGLED   banner !  the  flag  of  our 

pride  ! 

Though  trampled  by  traitors  and  basely  defied, 
Fling  out  to  the  glad  winds  your  red,  white,  and  blue, 
For  the  heart  of  the  Northland  is  beating  for  you ! 
And  her  strong  arm  is  nerving  to  strike  with  a  will, 
Till  the  foe  and  his  boastings  are  humbled  and  still ! 
Here's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death  —  for  the  Stripes  and  the 

Stars ! 

From  prairie,  O  ploughman !  speed  boldly  away,  — 
There's  seed  to  be  sown  in  God's  furrows  to-day ! 
Row  landward,  lone   fisher!   stout  woodman,  come 

home ! 

Let  smith  leave  his  anvil  and  weaver  his  loom, 
And  hamlet  and  city  ring  loud  with  the  cry : 
"  For  God  and  our  country  we'll  fight  till  we  die ! 
Here's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death — for  the  Stripes  and  the 

Stars ! " 

Invincible  banner !  the  flag  of  the  free, 

Oh,  where  treads  the  foot  that  would  falter  for  thee  ? 

128 


THE    STRIPES   AND   THE   STARS. 


Or  the  hands  to  be  folded,  till  triumph  is  won 
And  the  eagle  looks  proud,  as  of  old,  to  the  sun  ? 
Give  tears  for  the  parting  —  a  murmur  of  prayer  — 
Then  forward  !  the  fame  of  our  standard  to  share  ! 
With  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death  —  for  the  Stripes  and  the 
Stars  ! 

O  God  of  our  fathers !  this  banner  must  shine 
Where  battle  is  hottest,  in  warfare  divine  ! 
The  cannon  has  thundered,  the  bugle  has  blown  — 
We  fear  not  the  summons  —  we  fight  not  alone  ! 
Oh,  lead  us,  till  wide  from  the  gulf  to  the  sea 
The  land  shall  be  sacred  to  freedom  and  thee  ! 
With  love  for  oppression  ;  with  blessing  for  scars  — 
One  country  —  one   banner  —  the    Stripes    and   the 
Stars  ! 

—  Edna  Dean  Proctor. 


129 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


at  f0e 


'HP  HE  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 

Its  tasselled  plumes  of  silver  gray  ; 
The  chestnut  points  its  great  brown  buds,  impatient 
for  the  laggard  May. 

The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall  ; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall  ; 
And  mellow  sun,  and  pleasant  wind,  and  odorous 
bees  are  over  all. 

Down-looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood  ! 
How  far  remote  the  streaming  wounds,  the  sickening 
scent  of  human  blood  ! 

For  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies  ; 
No  war-dreams  vex  the  winter's  sleep  of  clover-heads 
and  daisy-eyes. 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink,  or  cities  flame  ; 
A  snowdrop  is  a  snowdrop  still,  despite  the  Nation's 
joy  or  shame. 

130 


SPRING  AT   THE   CAPITAL. 


When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 

To  heal  the  outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it 
with  soft  regrets. 

O  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O  tender-lipped  anemones, 

What  do  you  know  of  agony,  and  death,  and  blood- 
won  victories  ? 

No  shudder  breaks  your  sunshine  trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the  anguish- 
laden  ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums ; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes ; 
And  now  your  startled  stems  are  all  a-tremble  with 
the  jar  of  drums. 

Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 
Still,  deep  within  your  tranquil  hearts,  the  happy  bees 
are  humming,  "  Peace !  " 

O  flowers !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives ; 
Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in  your 
healing  leaves. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Help  us  to  trust  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  that  these  battle-stains  are  but  the  blood-red 
trouble  of  the  dawn, — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Than  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray,  — 
A   dawn   beneath   whose   purer   light  all  guilt  and 
wrong  shall  fade  away. 

Then  shall  our  Nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 
Stand  in  the  searching  light  unshamed,  with  spotless 
robe,  and  clean,  white  hands. 

—  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


132 


ROLL-CALL. 


(goffcetrff. 

«  /CORPORAL  GREEN  !  "  the  orderly  cried. 

"  Here  !  "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near ; 
And  "  Here !  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  "  —  then  a  silence  fell,  — 
This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 
Only  his  rear  man  had  seen  him  fall, 

Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hillsides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew ; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire, 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

133 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


"  Herbert  Kline ! "     At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

«  Ezra  Kerr ! "  —  and  a  voice  answered,  "  Here ! " 
"  Hiram  Kerr  ! "  —  but  no  man  replied. 
They  were  brothers,  these  two ;  the  sad  wind 
sighed, 

And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  corn-field  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane !  "  —  then  a  soldier  spoke : 
"  Deane  carried  our  regiment  colors,"  he  said ; 
"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot,  I  left  him  dead, 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  Death  came  with  it,  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory,  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear,  — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered,  "  Here ! " 
—  Nathaniel  G.  Shepherd. 


THE   REVEILLE. 


(ge&eiffe. 


TT  ARK  !  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum  ; 
Lo  !  a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick-alarming  drum 
Saying,  "  Come, 
Freemen,  come  ! 

Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick-alarm- 
ing drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel  : 

War  is  not  of  life  the  sum  ; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 
When  the  autumn  days  shall  come?  " 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "  Come  ! 

Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said  the  sol- 
emn-sounding drum. 

"  But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest,  subjugation, 
Even  greater  ills  become  ? 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 

135 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee- 
answering  drum. 

"  What  if,  'mid  the  cannon's  thunder, 
Whistling  shot,  and  bursting  bomb, 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb  ?  " 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come ! 

Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant 
—  Come  !  " 

Thus  they  answered,  —  hoping,  fearing, 
Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some,  — 
Till  a  trumpet-voice,  proclaiming, 
Said,  "  My  chosen  people,  come  ! " 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo  !  was  dumb ; 

For  the   great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  an- 
swered, "  Lord,  we  come !  " 

—  Bret  Harte. 


136 


THE   CUMBERLAND. 


Cumtierfanfe. 


A  T  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 
"^     On  board  of  the  Cumberland  sloop-of-war  ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle-blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort  ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag ! "  the  rebel  cries, 
In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 

"  Never !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies : 
"  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield !  " 

And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  awrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream. 
Ho !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 

138 


THE    CUMBERLAND. 


Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 
Shall  be  one  again, 
And  without  a  seam. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


139 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(ganner  of  tye 


T  T  URRAH  !  boys,  hurrah  !  fling  our  banner  to  the 

breeze  ! 
Let  the  enemies  of  freedom  see  its  folds  again 

unfurled. 

And  down  with  the  pirates  that  scorn  upon  the  seas 
Our  victorious  Yankee  banner,  sign  of  Freedom 
to  the  World  ! 

CHORUS. 

We'll  never  have  a  new  flag,  for  ours  is  the  true  flag, 
The  true  flag,  the  true  flag,  the  Red,  White,  and 

Blue  flag. 

Hurrah  !  boys,  hurrah  !  we  will  carry  to  the  wars 
The  old  flag,  the  free  flag,  the  Banner  of  the  Stars. 

And  what  tho'  its  white  shall  be  crimsoned  with  our 

blood  ? 
And  what  tho'  its  stripes  shall  be  shredded  in  the 

storms  ? 
To  the  torn  flag,  the  worn  flag,  we'll  keep  our  promise 

good, 

And  we'll  bear  the  starry  blue  field,  with  gallant 
hearts  and  arms.  —  CHO. 


140 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  STARS. 


Then,  cursed   be   he  who  would  strike  our   Starry 

Flag! 
May  the  God  of  Hosts  be  with  us,  as  we  smite  the 

traitor  down  ! 
And  cursed  be  he  who  would  hesitate  or  lag 

Till  the  dear  flag,  the  fair  flag,  with  Victory  we 
crown.  —  CHO. 

— ./?.  IV.  Raymond. 


141 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


*  Cvuef  Wat  30 


T~\  RAREST  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  last  did  meet, 
How  you  told  me  that  you  loved  me 

Kneeling  at  my  feet  ? 
Oh,  how  proud  you  stood  before  me 

In  your  suit  of  blue, 
When  you  vowed  to  me  and  country 

Ever  to  be  true. 

CHORUS. 

Weeping  sad  and  lonely, 
Hopes  and  fears  how  vain  ! 
Yet  praying, 

When  this  cruel  war  is  over, 
Praying  that  we  meet  again. 

When  the  summer  breeze  is  sighing 

Mournfully  along, 
Or  when  autumn  leaves  are  falling, 

Sadly  breathes  the  song. 
Oft  in  dreams  I  see  thee  lying 

On  the  battle  plain, 
Lonely,  wounded,  even  dying, 

Calling,  but  in  vain.  —  CHO. 

142 


WHEN   THIS   CRUEL   WAR   IS   OVER. 


If,  amid  the  din  of  battle, 

Nobly  you  should  fall, 
Far  away  from  those  who  love  you, 

None  to  hear  you  call, 
Who  would  whisper  words  of  comfort, 

Who  would  soothe  your  pain  ? 
Ah,  the  many  cruel  fancies 

Ever  in  my  brain !  —  CHO. 

But  our  country  called  you,  darling, 

Angels  cheer  your  way ! 
While  our  nation's  sons  are  fighting, 

We  can  only  pray. 
Nobly  strike  for  God  and  country, 

Let  all  nations  see 
How  we  love  the  starry  banner, 

Emblem  of  the  free.  —  CHO. 

—  Charles  Carroll  Sawyer. 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


T  N  the  prison  cell  I  sit, 

Thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you, 
And  our  bright  and  happy  home  so  far  away, 

And  the  tears  they  fill  my  eyes, 

Spite  of  all  that  I  can  do, 
Tho'  I  try  to  cheer  my  comrades  and  be  gay. 

CHORUS. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching, 
Oh,  cheer  up,  comrades,  they  will  come, 

And  beneath  the  starry  flag  we  shall  breathe  the  air 

again, 
Of  freedom  in  our  own  beloved  home. 

In  the  battle  front  we  stood 

When  the  fiercest  charge  they  made, 
And  they  swept  us  off  a  hundred  men  or  more, 

But  before  we  reached  their  lines 

They  were  beaten  back  dismayed, 
And  we  heard  the  cry  of  vict'ry  o'er  and  o'er.  —  CHO. 

So,  within  the  prison  cell, 
We  are  waiting  for  the  day 

144 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,  TRAMP. 


That  shall  come  to  open  wide  the  iron  door, 
And  the  hollow  eye  grows  bright, 
And  the  poor  heart  almost  gay, 
As  we  think  of  seeing  friends  and  home  once  more. 

—  CHO. 
—  George  F.  Root, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


*T*HE  army  is  gathering  from  near  and  from  far; 
The  trumpet  is  sounding  the  call  for  the  war; 
McClellan's  our  leader,  he's  gallant  and  strong  ; 
We'll  gird  on  our  armor  and  be  marching  along. 


CHORUS. 


Marching  along,  we  are  marching  along, 
Gird  on  the  armor  and  be  marching  along  ; 
McClellan's  our  leader,  he's  gallant  and  strong; 
For  God  and  our  country  we  are  marching  along. 


The  foe  is  before  us  in  battle  array, 

But  let  us  not  waver,  or  turn  from  the  way ; 

The  Lord  is  our  strength,  and  the  Union's  our  song; 

With  courage  and  faith  we  are  marching  along. 

—  CHO. 

Our  wives  and  our  children  we  leave  in  your  care, 
We  feel  you  will  help  them  with  sorrow  to  bear ; 
'Tis  hard  thus  to  part,  but  we  hope  'twon't  be  long ; 
We'll  keep  up  our  heart  as  we're  marching  along. 

—  CHO. 

146 


MARCHING  ALONG. 


We  sigh  for  our  country,  we  mourn  for  our  dead ; 
For  them  now  our  last  drop  of  blood  we  will  shed ; 
Our  cause  is  the  right  one,  —  our  foe's  in  the  wrong ; 
Then  gladly  we'll  sing  as  we're  marching  along. 

—  CHO. 

The  flag  of  our  country  is  floating  on  high ; 
We'll  stand  by  that  flag  till  we  conquer  or  die ; 
McClellan's  our  leader,  he's  gallant  and  strong; 
We'll  gird  on  our  armor  and  be  marching  along. 

—  CHO. 
—  William  B.  Bradbury. 


147 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"D  Y  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  had  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat ; 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe  ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 
Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 

148 


THE    BLUE   AND   THE   GRAY. 


Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all,  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray0 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth 

On  forest,  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done  ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  now  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won ; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 
Waiting  the  judgment  day; 

149 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red  ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew ; 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue  ; 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

—  Francis  M.  Finch. 


150 


THE  SMALLEST  OF  THE  DRUMS. 


of  f(5e  <5>rum0. 


the  opulence  of  summer  unto  wood  and 
meadow  comes, 
And  within  the  tangled  graveyard   riot   old-time 

spice  and  bloom, 
Then  dear  Nature  brings  her  tribute  to  the  "  smallest 

of  the  drums," 

Spreads  the  sweetest  of  her  blossoms  on  the  little 
soldier's  tomb. 

In  the  quiet  country  village,  still  they  tell  you  how 

he  died  ; 
And   the  story  moves  you  strangely,  more   than 

other  tales  of  war. 
Thrice   heroic   seems   the   hero,   if   he   be   a   child 

beside, 

And  the  wound  that  tears  his  bosom  is  more  sad 
than  others  far. 

In  the  ranks  of  Sherman's  army  none  so  young  and 

small  as  he, 
With  his  face  so  soft  and  dimpled,  and  his  inno- 

cent blue  eyes. 
Yet  of  all  the  Union  drummers  he  could  drum  most 

skilfully, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


With  a  spirit  —  said  his  colonel  —  fit  to  make  the 
dead  arise ! 

In  the  charge  at  Chickamauga  (so,  beside  his  little 

grave, 
You  may  learn  the  hero's  story  of  some  villager, 

perchance), 
When  his  regiment  sank,  broken,  from  the  rampart, 

like  a  wave, 

Thrice  the  clangor  of  his  drum-beat  rallied  to  a 
fresh  advance. 

There  he  stood  upon  the  hillside,  capless,  with  his 

shining  hair 
Blown  about  his  childish  forehead  like  the  bright 

silk  of  the  corn ; 
And  the  men  looked  up,  and  saw  him  standing  brave 

and  scathless  there, 

As  an  angel  on  a  hilltop,  in  the  drifting  mist  of 
morn. 

Thrice   they  rallied   at   his  drum  -  beat,  —  then  the 

tattered  flag  went  down ! 

Some  one  caught  it,  waved  it  skyward  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  fell. 
In  the  dust,  and  gore,  and  drabble,  all  the  stars  of 

freedom's  crown, 

And  the  soldiers  beaten  backward  from  the  em- 
blem loved  so  well! 

152 


THE  SMALLEST  OF  THE  DRUMS. 


Then  our  drummer-boy,  our  hero,  from  his  neck  the 

drum-cord  flung, 
And  amid  the  hail  of  bullets  to  the  fallen  banner 

sped. 
Quick   he   raised    it   from   dishonor ;    quick   before 

them  all  he  sprung, 

And  in  fearless,  proud  defiance,  waved  the  old  flag 
o'er  his  head ! 

For  a  minute's  space  the  cheering,  louder  than  the 

singing  balls, 
And  the  soldiers  pressing  forward,  closing  up  their 

broken  line, 
Then  the  child's  bright  head,  death-stricken,  on  his 

throbbing  bosom  falls, 

And  the  brave  eyes  that  God  lighted  cease  with 
life  and  soul  to  shine. 

In  the   flag  he  saved  they  wrapped  him;  in  that 

starry  shroud  he  lies, 
And  the  roses,  and  the  lilacs,  and  the  daisies  seem 

to  know ; 
For  in  all  that  peaceful  acre,  sleeping  'neath  the 

summer  skies, 

There  is  neither  mound  nor  tablet  that  is  wreathed 
and  guarded  so ! 

— James  Buckham. 


'53 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


(Jteenan'0 


HTHE  sun  had  set; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet,  — 
Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 
Where  Stonewall's  corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 
Tore  through  with  angry  tusk. 

"  They've  trapped  us,  boys  !  " 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love,  and  wild  as  hate  ; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke  ; 

Broke  and  fled. 

Not  one  stayed,  —  but  the  dead! 

With  curses,  shrieks,  and  cries, 

Horses,  and  wagons,  and  men, 

Tumbled  back  through  the  shuddering  glen, 

And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

There's  some  hope,  still,  — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill  ! 
"  Battery,  wheel  "  ('mid  the  roar), 

154 


KEENAN'S    CHARGE. 


"Pass  pieces;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot !  "     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "  Trot !  "  —  and  no  more, 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rose  a  form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm. 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout : 

"  Align  those  guns ! " 

(We  knew  it  was  Pleasanton's.) 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 

And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word, 

And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 

But,  ah,  the  dread  delay  ! 

"  To  wait  is  crime ; 
O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time  !  " 
The  general  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 
With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone, 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men  ?  " 

"  Are  soldiers,  general."     "  Then, 

Charge,  major !     Do  your  best; 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed ;  —  else  the  army  is 

lost. 
You  die  to  save  the  rest !  " 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasanton's  eyes 
For  an  instant,  —  clear,  and  cool,  and  still ; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said :  "  I  will." 

"  Cavalry,  charge ! "    Not  a  man  of  them 

shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 
Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath,  — 
Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred,  and 

clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed ; 
Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 
In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 
And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 
Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of    scabbard,  and  thunder  of 

steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 

156 


KEENAN'S   CHARGE. 


And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed 

with  flame ; 

Rode  in,  and  sabred,  and  shot,  —  and  fell ; 
Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 
And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall, 
In  the  gloom  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 
While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 
'Round  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous 

hung. 

Line  after  line,  ay,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dra- 
goons, 

By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne, 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn ; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 
So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

And  over  them,  lying  there  shattered  and 

mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  —  'Tis  a  death-salute 

157 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 

From  the  cannon  in  place ;  for,  heroes,  you 

braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain ;  the  army  was  saved  ! 

Over  them  now,  —  year  following  year,  — 
Over  their  graves  the  pine  cones  fall, 
And  the  whippoorwill  chants  his  spectre  call ; 
But  they  stir  not  again,  they  raise  no  cheer ; 
They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall 

never  cease, 
Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of 

peace. 

The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 
That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 

—  George  Parsons  Lathrop. 


158 


MARCHING  THROUGH   GEORGIA. 


TDRING  the  good  old  bugle,  boys !  we'll  sing  an- 
other song, — 

Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world  along,  — 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it,  fifty  thousand  strong, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

CHORUS. 

Hurrah,  hurrah  !  we  bring  the  jubilee  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  !  the  flag  that  makes  you  free  ! 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

How  the  darkies  shouted  when  they  heard  the  joyful 

sound ! 
How  the    turkeys   gobbled   which  -our   commissary 

found ! 

How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the  ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia !  —  CHO. 

Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with  joyful 

tears 
When  they  saw  the  honor'd  flag  they  had  not  seen 

for  years; 

159 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  breaking  forth 

in  cheers 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  —  CHO. 

"  Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never  reach 

the  coast ! " 
So  the  saucy  rebels  said,  —  and  t'was  a  handsome 

boast. 

Had  they  not  forgot,  alas !  to  reckon  on  a  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  —  CHO. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for   Freedom  and  her 

train, 

Sixty  miles  in  latitude,  three  hundred  to  the  main ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in  vain, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  —  CHO. 

-H.  C.  Work. 


160 


O   CAPTAIN!    MY   CAPTAIN. 

4)  Captain!  QJt£  Captain! 

On  the  Death  of  Lincoln. 

S~\  Captain !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
^^^   The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells   I   hear,  the  people  all 

exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim 

and  daring; 

But,  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 

Oh,  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up,  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung,  —  for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths,  —  for  you 

the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 

turning ; 

Here,  Captain !  dear  father ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

161 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 

still ; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 

won; 

Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells ! 

But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 
Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 

Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

—  Walt  Whitman. 


162 


BATTLE   HYMN   OF   THE   REPUBLIC. 


(gatffe  3E)£tnn  of  f0e  (gepufific. 

TV/TINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 

1V1     of  the  Lord; 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes 

of  wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible 

swift  sword; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

CHORUS. 

Glory !  Glory  Hallelujah ! 
Glory  !  Glory  Hallelujah ! 
Glory  !  Glory  Hallelujah ! 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have   seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred 

circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 

and  damps ; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps; 

His  day  is  marching  on.  —  CHO. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 
steel : 

163 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal." 
Let  the  hero  born  of  woman  crush  the  serpent  with 

his  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on.  —  CHO. 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat ; 

He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judg- 
ment seat ; 

Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him ;  be  jubilant, 
my  feet ; 

Our  God  is  marching  on.  —  CHO. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me ; 

As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make 
men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on.  —  CHO. 

— Julia  Ward  Howe. 


164 


LYON. 


C  ING,  bird,  on  green  Missouri's  plain, 

Thy  saddest  song  of  sorrow ; 
Drop  tears,  O  clouds,  in  gentlest  rain 

Ye  from  the  winds  can  borrow ; 
Breathe  out,  ye  winds,  your  softest  sigh, 

Weep,  flowers,  in  dewy  splendor, 
For  him  who  knew  well  how  to  die, 

But  never  to  surrender ! 

Up  rose  serene  the  August  sun 

Upon  that  day  of  glory  ; 
Up  curled  from  musket  and  from  gun 

The  war-cloud  gray  and  hoary. 
It  gathered  like  a  funeral  pall 

Now  broken  and  now  blended, 
Where  rang  the  bugle's  angry  call, 

And  rank  with  rank  contended. 

Four  thousand  men,  as  brave  and  true 

As  e'er  went  forth  in  daring, 
Upon  the  foe  that  morning  threw 

The  strength  of  their  despairing. 
They  feared  not  death,  —  men  bless  the  field 

That  patriot  soldiers  die  on,  — 

165 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Fair  Freedom's  cause  was  sword  and  shield, 
And  at  their  head  was  Lyon ! 

The  leader's  troubled  soul  looked  forth 

From  eyes  of  troubled  brightness ; 
Sad  soul !  the  burden  of  the  North 

Had  pressed  out  all  its  lightness. 
He  gazed  upon  the  unequal  fight, 

His  ranks  all  rent  and  gory, 
And  felt  the  shadows  close  like  night 

Round  his  career  of  glory. 

"  General,  come  lead  us !  "  loud  the  cry 

From  a  brave  band  was  ringing,  — 
"  Lead  us,  and  we  will  stop,  or  die, 

That  battery's  awful  singing." 
He  spurred  to  where  his  heroes  stood, 

Twice  wounded,  —  no  wound  knowing,  — 
The  fire  of  battle  in  his  blood 

And  on  his  forehead  glowing. 

Oh,  cursed  for  aye  that  traitor's  hand, 
And  cursed  that  aim  so  deadly, 

Which  smote  the  bravest  of  the  land, 
And  dyed  his  bosom  redly ! 

Serene  he  lay,  while  past  him  prest 
The  battle's  furious  billow, 

166 


LYON. 


As  calmly  as  a  babe  may  rest 
Upon  its  mother's  pillow. 

So  Lyon  died  !  and  well  may  flowers 

His  place  of  burial  cover, 
For  never  had  this  land  of  ours 

A  more  devoted  lover. 
Living,  his  country  was  his  pride, 

His  life  he  gave  her,  dying ; 
Life,  fortune,  love,  —  he  naught  denied 

To  her  and  to  her  sighing. 

Rest,  patriot,  in  thy  hillside  grave, 

Beside  her  form  who  bore  thee ! 
Long  may  the  land  thou  diedst  to  save 

Her  bannered  stars  wave  o'er  thee  ! 
Upon  her  history's  brightest  page, 

And  on  Fame's  glowing  portal, 
She'll  write  thy  grand,  heroic  rage 

And  grave  thy  name  immortal. 

—  Henry  Peterson. 


167 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


"  "D  IFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette; 
Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet !  " 


"  Ah,  captain  !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 
There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune  ! " 

Crack !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,    rifleman,    steal    through    the    bushes,  and 

snatch 
From  your  victim  some   trinket  to  handsel   first 

blood ; 
A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud ! " 

"  Oh,  captain !  I  staggered  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette, 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

«  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket,  —  this  locket  of  gold ; 
An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 

168 


THE   FANCY    SHOT. 


Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"  Ha !  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket !  —  'tis  she, 

My  brother's  young  bride,  —  and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband  —  Hush!  soldier,  'twas  Heaven's 

decree, 
We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  ! 

"  But  hark  !  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite  ; 

War  is  a  virtue,  weakness  a  sin ; 
There's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night ;  — 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  !  " 

—  Charles  Dawson  Shanly. 


169 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


3n 


T    LAY  me  down  to  sleep, 

With  little  thought  or  care 
Whether  my  waking  find 
Me  here  or  there. 

A  bowing,  burdened  head, 
That  only  asks  to  rest, 
Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast. 

My  good  right  hand  forgets 
Its  cunning  now. 
To  march  the  weary  march 
I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold, 
Nor  strong,  —  all  that  is  past; 
I  am  ready  not  to  do 
At  last,  at  last. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done, 
And  this  is  all  my  part  ; 
I  give  a  patient  God 
My  patient  heart, 

170 


IN   THE   HOSPITAL. 


And  grasp  his  banner  still, 
Though  all  its  blue  be  dim ; 
These  stripes,  no  less  than  stars, 
Lead  after  him. 

—  M.  W.  Howland. 


171 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


pARRAGUT,  Farragut, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke, 
Watches  the  hoary  mist 

Lift  from  the  bay, 
Till  his  flag,  glory-kissed, 

Greets  the  young  day. 

Far,  by  gray  Morgan's  walls, 

Looms  the  black  fleet. 
Hark,  deck  to  rampart  calls 

With  the  drums'  beat ! 
Buoy  your  chains  overboard, 

While  the  steam  hums ; 
Men !  to  the  battlement, 

Farragut  comes. 

See,  as  the  hurricane 

Hurtles  in  wrath 
Squadrons  of  clouds  amain 

Back  from  its  path  ! 
Back  to  the  parapet, 

To  the  guns'  lips, 

172 


2 


H  a 
*  > 


§  jf 

o  _s 

w  rt 

§  I 


FARRAGUT. 


Thunderbolt  Farragut 
Hurls  the  black  ships. 

Now  through  the  battle's  roar 

Clear  the  boy  sings, 
"  By  the  mark  fathoms  four," 

While  his  lead  swings. 
Steady  the  wheelmen  five 

"  Nor'  by  east  keep  her," 
"  Steady,"  but  two  alive : 

How  the  shells  sweep  her! 

Lashed  to  the  mast  that  sways 

Over  red  decks, 
Over  the  flame  that  plays 

Round  the  torn  wrecks, 
Over  the  dying  lips 

Framed  for  a  cheer, 
Farragut  leads  his  ships, 

Guides  the  line  clear. 

On  by  heights  cannon-browed, 
While  the  spars  quiver ; 

Onward  still  flames  the  cloud 
Where  the  hulks  shiver. 

See,  yon  fort's  star  is  set, 
Storm  and  fire  past. 

173 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Cheer  him,  lads,  —  Farragut, 
Lashed  to  the  mast ! 

Oh  !  while  Atlantic's  breast 

Bears  a  white  sail, 
While  the  Gulf's  towering  crest 

Tops  a  green  vale ; 
Men  thy  bold  deeds  shall  tell, 

Old  Heart  of  Oak, 
Daring  Dave  Farragut, 

Thunderbolt  stroke  ! 

—  W.  T.  Meredith, 


174 


JOHN   BURNS   OF   GETTYSBURG. 


jjo0n  (gums  of 


T  T  AVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 

Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg  ?     No  ?     Ah,  well 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero  earns, 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  John  Burns  ; 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown,  — 
The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 
When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town  ; 
But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,  sixty-three,  — 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
John  Burns  stood  at  his  cottage  door, 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,  in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet  ; 
Or,  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


The  milk  that  fell  like  a  babbling  flood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood ; 
Or,  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine,  • 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 

And  it  was  terrible.     On  the  right 

Raged  for  hours  the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass,  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face ; 

While  on  the  left,  —  where  now  the  graves 

Undulate  like  the  living  waves 

That  all  the  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to  the  pits  the  rebels  kept,  — 

Round-shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there, 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air ; 

The  very  trees  were  stripped  and  bare ; 

176 


JOHN   BURNS    OF   GETTYSBURG. 


The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 
Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the  slain ; 
The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 
The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 
And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 
With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 

Erect  and  lonely,  stood  old  John  Burns. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient,  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron,  —  but  his  best ; 

And  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons,  —  size  of  a  dollar,  — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called  "  swaller.5 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,  bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 
Veterans  of  the  Peninsula, 
Sunburnt  and  bearded,  charged  away ; 
And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin, — 
Clerks  that  the  Home-guard  mustered  in,  — 

177 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Glanced,  as  they  passed,  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore ; 

And  hailed  him,  from  out  their  youthful  lore, 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 

"  How  are  you,  White  Hat?  "  "  Put  her  through  ! " 

"  Your  head's  level !  "  and  "  Bully  for  you  !  " 

Called  him  «  Daddy,"  —  begged  he'd  disclose 

The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 

And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those ; 

While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 

Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off,  — 

With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crowned  hat, 

And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 
Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked ; 
And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the  old  man's  strong  right  hand, 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown ; 
Until,  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an  awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 
That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat  afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 

178 


JOHN   BURNS    OF   GETTYSBURG. 


That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

Thus  raged  the  battle.     You  know  the  rest ; 

How  the  rebels,  beaten,  and  backward  pressed, 

Broke  at  the  final  charge  and  ran. 

At  which  John  Burns,  —  a  practical  man,  — 

Shouldered  his  rifle,  unbent  his  brows, 

And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather. 

— Bret  Harte. 


179 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


"   A  LL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing,  — a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night  wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack,  —  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 
Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 

180 


THE    PICKET   GUARD. 


As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep,  — 
For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  —  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Towards  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night  wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  the  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looks  like  a  rifle  —  ah  !  —  "  Mary,  good-by  !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 

The  picket's  off  duty  forever. 

—  Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


181 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


erf     Jefcen 


OO  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey, — 

That  story  of  Kearney  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'Twas  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf 

oak  and  pine, 
Where   the   aim   from  the   thicket  was   surest  and 

nighest, 

No  charge  like  Phil  Kearney's  along  the  whole 
line. 

When   the   battle   went  ill,   and   the  bravest  were 

solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held 

our  ground, 

He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 
And   his  heart   at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a 

bound. 

He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  pow- 
der,- 

182 


KEARNEY   AT   SEVEN   PINES. 


His  sword  waved  us  on,  and  we  answered  the 

sign ; 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder ; 
"  There's   the   devil's   own   fun,  boys,   along  the 

whole  line  !  " 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed !     How  we  saw  his 

blade  brighten 
In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his 

teeth ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 

Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through  the  clearing  or 

pine? 
« Oh,    anywhere !     Forward !     'Tis    all    the    same, 

colonel : 
You'll  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line ! " 

Oh,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 
That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and 

tried ! 

Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 
The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's 
pride ! 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 
Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drum- 
mer's sign,  — 

Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 
And  the  word  still  is  Forward!  along  the  whole 
line. 

—  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


184 


AFTER  ALL. 


T^HE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage  door  the  grandsire 

Sits  pale  in  his  easy  chair, 
While  the  gentle  wind  of  twilight 

Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  pressed, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  the  drum. 

And  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper : 
"  The  end,  no  man  can  see ; 

But  we  gave  him  to  his  country, 
And  we  give  our  prayers  to  thee." 

185 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rosebuds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle- 
field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone, 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 

—  William  Winter. 


186 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 


n'0  (gibe. 


TIP  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day, 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thunder'd  along  the  horizon's  bar  ; 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  roll'd 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontroll'd, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 
As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down  : 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretch'd  away  with  his  utmost  speed  ; 

187 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south. 
The  dust  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flow'd, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 
But,  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire ; 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  ; 
What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him  both. 
Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 

188 


SHERIDAN'S   RIDE. 


He  dash'd  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there, 

because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelPd  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust   the   black   charger  was 

gray; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seem'd  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say : 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  Sheridan ! 

Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 

There  with  the  glorious  general's  name 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 

"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester,  —  twenty  miles  away  !  " 

—  Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


189 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


gome  f$e 


S~\UT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass, 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 
One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go  ; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 
And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow 
swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun, 

And  stealthily  followed  the  footpath  damp. 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

190 


DRIVING   HOME   THE    COWS. 


Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cold  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was 
done; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one,  — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass, — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale  from  the  crisping  hair 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  the  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

191 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 
For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are 

dumb; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies, 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

—  Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 


192 


MUSIC   IN   CAMP. 


ic  in  Camp. 


*TTWO  armies  covered  hill  and  plain, 
Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure  ; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  high  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver  ; 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now,  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender, 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

193 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up,  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks ; 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "  Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still ;  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "  Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 

Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 
But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 

With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause ;  and  then  again 

The  trumpet  pealed,  sonorous, 
And  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  Boys  in  Blue 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 


194 


MUSIC   IN   CAMP. 


And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot ; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang,  — 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles ; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue,  or  Gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live  oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold,  or  warm,  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him ; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

195 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


But  Memory,  waked  by  Music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simple  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines,  — 
That  bright  celestial  creature,  — 

Who  still  'mid  War's  embattled  lines 
Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 

— John  R.  Thompson. 


196 


THREE    HUNDRED   THOUSAND   MORE. 


£0ree  gunbrefc  $0ousan&  (JJlore. 

\\T E  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more, 
From  Mississippi's  winding  stream  and  from  New 

England's  shore ; 
We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and 

children  dear, 
With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent 

tear; 

We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before : 
We  are  coming,   Father   Abraham,   three  hundred 

thousand  more ! 

If  you  look  across  the  hilltops  that  meet  the  northern 

sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may 

descry; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil 

aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag  in  glory  and  in 

pride, 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave 

music  pour: 
We   are   coming,   Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 

thousand  more! 

197 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 

If  you  look  all  up  our  valleys  where  the  growing  har- 
vests shine, 

You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into 
line; 

And  children  from  their  mothers'  knees  are  pulling  at 
the  weeds, 

And  learning  how  to  reap  and  sow  against  their  coun- 
try's needs ; 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage 
door; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred 
thousand  more! 

You  have  called  us,  and  we're  coming,  by  Richmond's 

bloody  tide 
To  lay  us  down,  for  Freedom's  sake,  our  brothers' 

bones  beside, 
Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  grasp  to  wrench  the 

murderous  blade, 
And   in   the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to 

parade. 
Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone 

before : 
We   are   coming,    Father   Abraham,  three   hundred 

thousand  more! 

— James  Gibbons. 
198 


CAVALRY    SONG. 


JJong. 


/^~\UR  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 
^-^     Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

Halt! 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball  : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 

Into  the  fight  ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome  : 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven!     No  thoughts  of  home: 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

Charge  ! 

Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all  ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall  ! 
Cut  left  and  right  ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall  !  they  spread  in  broken  surges  ! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 

And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 
Wheel  ! 


199 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good  night ! 

—  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman, 


200 


MARCHING   STILL. 


ing  JJfiff. 


C  HE  is  old,  and  bent,  and  wrinkled, 

In  her  rocker  in  the  sun, 
And  the  thick,  gray,  woollen  stocking 

That  she  knits  is  never  done. 
She  will  ask  the  news  of  battle 

If  you  pass  her  when  you  will, 
For  to  her  the  troops  are  marching, 
Marching  still. 

Seven  tall  sons  about  her  growing 
Cheered  the  widowed  mother's  soul  ; 

One  by  one  they  kissed  and  left  her 
When  the  drums  began  to  roll. 

They  are  buried  in  the  trenches, 
They  are  bleaching  on  the  hill  ; 

But  to  her  the  boys  are  marching, 
Marching  still. 

She  was  knitting  in  the  corner 
When  the  fatal  news  was  read, 

How  the  last  and  youngest  perished,  — 
And  the  letter,  ending,  said  : 

"  I  am  writing  on  my  knapsack 
By  the  road,  with  borrowed  quill, 

fccr 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


For  the  Union  army's  marching, 
Marching  still." 

Reason  sank  and  died  within  her 

Like  a  flame  for  want  of  air; 
So  she  knits  the  woollen  stockings 

For  the  soldier  lads  to  wear, 
Waiting  till  the  war  is  ended 

For  her  sons  to  cross  the  sill ; 
For  she  thinks  they  all  are  marching, 
Marching  still. 

—  Minna  Irving. 


2C« 


THE   BATTLE-CRY   OF   FREEDOM. 


of 


\7"ES,  we'll  rally  'round  the  flag,  boys,  we'll  rally 

once  again, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
We  will  rally  from  the  hillside,  we'll  gather  from  the 

plain, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

CHORUS. 

The  Union  forever,  hurrah,  toys,  hurrah, 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star, 

While  we  rally  'round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  are  springing  to  the  call  of  our  brothers  gone  be- 

fore, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  we'll  fill  the  vacant  ranks  with  a  million  freemen 

more, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  CHO. 

We  will  welcome  to  our  numbers  the  loyal,  true,  and 

brave, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 

203 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


And  altho'  they  may  be  poor,  not  a  man  shall  be  a 

slave, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  CHO. 

So  we're  springing  to  the  call  from  the  East  and 

from  the  West, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom, 
And  we'll  hurl  the  rebel  crew  from  the  land  we  love 

the  best, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.  —  CHO. 


204 


THE   CAVALRY   CHARGE. 


T  T  ARK !  the  rattling  roar  of  the  musketeers, 

And  the  ruffled  drums,  and  the  rallying  cheers, 
And  the  rifles  burn  with  a  keen  desire 
Like  the  crackling  whips  of  a  hemlock  fire, 
And  the  singing  shot,  and  the  shrieking  shell, 
And  the  splintered  fire  on  the  shattered  hell, 
And  the  great  white  breaths  of  the  cannon  smoke 
As  the  growling  guns  by  batteries  spoke  ; 
And  the  ragged  gaps  in  the  walls  of  blue 
Where  the  iron  surge  rolled  heavily  through, 
That  the  colonel  builds  with  a  breath  again 
As  he  cleaves  the  din  with  his  "  Close  up,  men  /  " 
And  the  groan  torn  out  from  the  blackened  lips, 
And  the  prayer  doled  slow  with  the  crimsoned  drips, 
And  the  beaming  look  in  the  dying  eye 
As  under  the  cloud  the  stars  go  by, 
"  But  his  soul  marched  on  !  "  the  captain  said, 
For  the  Boy  in  Blue  can  never  be  dead ! 
And  the  troopers  sit  in  their  saddles  all 
Like  statues  carved  in  an  ancient  hall, 
And   they  watch    the   whirl   from    their   breathless 

ranks, 
And  their  spurs  are  close  to  the  horses'  flanks, 

205 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  the  fingers  work  of  the  sabre  hand,  — 
Oh,  to  bid  them  live,  and  to  make  them  grand ! 
And  the  bugle  sounds  to  the  charge  at  last, 
And  away  they  plunge,  and  the  front  is  passed  ! 
And  the  jackets  blue  grow  red  as  they  ride, 
And  the  scabbards,  too,  that  clank  by  their  side, 
And  the  dead  soldiers  deaden  the  strokes  iron-shod 
As  they  gallop  right  on  o'er  the  plashy  red  sod,  — 
Right  into  the  cloud  all  spectral  and  dim, 
Right  up  to  the  guns  black-throated  and  grim, 
Right  down  on  the  hedges  bordered  with  steel, 
Right  through  the  dense  columns,  —  then,  "Right 

about  wheel !  " 

Hurrah  !  a  new  swath  through  the  harvest  again ! 
Hurrah  for  the  Flag !     To  the  battle,  Amen  ! 

—  Benjamin  F.  Taylor. 


206 


THE   BLACK   REGIMENT. 


(JJegiment 


•pjARK  as  the  clouds  of  even, 

Ranked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Waiting  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dead  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a  ruined  land,  — 
So  still  and  orderly, 
Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event, 
Stands  the  black  regiment. 


Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam,  and  eyeballs  shine  ; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 
Flashed  with  a  purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 

207 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"  Now,"  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
"  Though  death  and  hell  betide, 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 
If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land ;  or  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hound,  — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  cold  chains  again !  " 
Oh,  what  a  shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment ! 

"  Charge !  "  trump  and  drum  awoke ; 
Onward  the  bondsmen  broke ; 
Bayonet  and  sabre-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 
Through  the  wild  battle's  crush, 
With  but  one  thought  aflush, 
Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 
In  the  gun's  mouth  they  laugh ; 
Or  at  the  slippery  brands, 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 
Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 
Down  in  their  awful  course ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crushing  steel,  — 
All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 
Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

208 


THE   BLACK   REGIMENT. 


"  Freedom !  "  their  battle-cry,  — 
"  Freedom  !  or  leave  to  die  !  " 
Ah !  and  they  meant  the  word, 
Not  as  with  us  'tis  heard,  — 
Not  a  mere  party  shout ; 
They  gave  their  spirits  out, 
Trusted  the  end  to  God, 
And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 
Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe ; 
Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 
Though  on  the  lips  of  death ; 
Praying  —  alas  !  in  vain  !  — 
That  they  might  fall  again, 
So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  to  liberty ! 
This  was  what  "  freedom  "  lent 
To  the  black  regiment. 


Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell ; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges,  and  shackles  strong, 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 
Oh,  to  the  living  few, 
Soldiers,  be  just  and  true ! 

209 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Hail  them  as  comrades  tried ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side. 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 
Scorn  the  black  regiment ! 

—  George  H.  Boker. 


210 


THE   WAR   WITH    SPAIN 


ON   THE   EVE   OF   WAR. 


of 


f^  GOD  of  Battles,  who  art  still 

^     The  God  of  Love,  the  God  of  Rest, 

Subdue  thy  people's  fiery  will, 

And  quell  the  passions  in  their  breast  ! 
Before  we  bathe  our  hands  in  blood 
We  lift  them  to  thy  Holy  Rood. 

The  waiting  nations  hold  their  breath 
To  catch  the  dreadful  battle-cry  ; 

And  in  the  silence  as  of  death 
The  fateful  hours  go  softly  by. 

Oh,  hear  thy  people  where  they  pray, 

And  shrive  our  souls  before  the  fray  ! 

Before  the  sun  of  peace  shall  set, 
We  kneel  apart  a  solemn  while  ; 

Pity  the  eyes  with  sorrow  wet, 
But  pity  most  the  lips  that  smile. 

The  night  comes  fast  ;  we  hear  afar 

The  baying  of  the  wolves  of  war. 

Not  lightly,  oh,  not  lightly,  Lord, 
Let  this  our  awful  task  begin  ; 


213 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Speak  from  thy  throne  a  warning  word 

Above  the  angry  factions'  din. 
If  this  be  thy  Most  Holy  will, 
Be  with  us  still,  —  be  with  us  still ! 

—  Danske  Dandridge. 
Good  Friday,  1898. 


214 


ANSWERING   TO   ROLL-CALL. 


to  (goffccaff. 


'T%HIS  one  fought  with  Jackson,  and  faced  the  fight 

with  Lee; 
That  one  followed  Sherman  as  he  galloped  to  the 

sea; 
But  they're  marchin'  on  together  just  as  friendly  as 

can  be, 
And  they'll  answer  to  the  roll-call  in  the  mornin'  ! 


They'll  rally  to  the  fight, 

In  the  stormy  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever; 

While  the  storm-winds  waft  on  high 

Their  ringing  battle-cry : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever !  " 

The  brave  old  flag  above  them  is  rippling  down  its 

red,— 
Each  crimson  stripe  the  emblem  of  the  blood  by 

heroes  shed ; 
It  shall  wave  for  them  victorious  or  droop  above 

them,  —  dead, 
For  they'll  answer  to  the  roll-call  in  the  mornin' ! 

215 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


They'll  rally  to  the  fight 

In  the  storm)-  day  and  night, 
In  bonds  that  no  cruel  fate  shall  sever ; 

While  their  far-famed  battle-cry 

Shall  go  ringing  to  the  sky : 
"  Our  country,  —  our  country  forever  !  " 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


216 


NEW   BEACONS   SET. 


(Beacons 

To  the  heroes  of  the  war-ship  Maine. 

"^T  O  more,  no  more  shall  come  the  brave  - 

The  champions  of  the  free  — 
Who  bore  our  flag  upon  the  wave 
From  farthest  sea  to  sea. 

No  cheer  shall  rise  from  sailor  lip 

To  greet  the  starry  fold, 
The  ensign  of  the  gallant  ship 

Shall  be  no  more  unrolPd  ! 

Three  hundred  heroes  in  their  might 
Ttyeir  country's  summons  heard  — 

Thrice-sworn  to  guard  their  country's  right 
From  harm  of  deed  or  word  ; 

Nor  trustier  band  e'er  faced  a  foe 

Upon  the  surging  deep, 
Nor  met  the  thousand-shotted  blow 

Along  the  bloody  steep  ! 

Not  theirs  the  fierce  delight  to  feel 

The  fury  of  the  fray,  — 
To  know  their  steel  quick  answered  steel 

Where  f  oemen  barr'd  the  way  ; 

217 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


But  in  the  shadow  of  the  gloom 
That  'round  the  proud  ship  fell, 

There  burst  the  awful  roar  of  doom 
And  fires  of  sudden  hell  1 

They  died  as  only  men  can  die 

Who  follow,  as  their  star, 
Grim  Duty's  light  —  nor  question  why  — 

Thro'  paths  of  peace  and  war ! 

Beside  the  sea  their  graves  are  set,  — 

Beneath  the  surging  foam,  — 
And  many  a  Northland  eye  is  wet 

Because  they  come  not  home ! 

They  come  not  home  forevermore, 
But  evermore  they'll  be,  « 

From  lake  to  gulf,  from  shore  to  shore, 
New  beacons  to  the  free,  — 

New  lights  upon  the  rocky  coasts 

To  guide  our  Ship  of  State ; 
New  proof  how  hearts,  too  brave  for  boasts, 

In  serving  may  be  great ! 

— John  Jerome  Rooney. 


218 


REMEMBER  THE   MAINE." 


"(JJememfJer 


Tl  7"HEN   the   vengeance  wakes,  when   the   battle 
VV      breaks, 

And  the  ships  sweep  out  to  sea, 
When  the  foe  is  neared  and  the  decks  are  cleared 

And  the  colors  floating  free, 
When  the  squadrons  meet,  when  it's  fleet  to  fleet 

And  front  to  front  with  Spain, 
From  ship  to  ship,  from  lip  to  lip, 

Pass  on  the  quick  refrain, 

"  Remember,  remember  the  Maine  !  " 

When  the  flag  shall  sign,  "  Advance  in  line  ; 

Train  ships  on  an  even  keel," 
When  the  guns  shall  flash  and  the  shot  shall  crash 

And  bound  on  the  ringing  steel, 
When  the  rattling  blasts  from  the  armored  masts 

Are  hurling  their  deadliest  rain, 
Let  their  voices  loud,  through  the  blinding  cloud, 

Cry  ever  the  fierce  refrain, 

"  Remember,  remember  the  Maine  /  " 

God's  sky  and  sea  in  that  storm  shall  be 
Fate's  chaos  of  smoke  and  flame, 

219 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN  PATRIOTISM. 


But  across  that  hell  every  shot  shall  tell, 

Not  a  gun  can  miss  its  aim ; 
Not  a  blow  shall  fail  on  the  crumbling  mail, 

And  the  waves  that  engulf  the  slain 
Shall  sweep  the  decks  of  the  blackened  wrecks 

With  the  thundering,  dread  refrain, 

"  Remember,  remember  the  Maine  !  " 

—  Robert  Burns  Wilson. 


220 


THE   MAINE'S    MEN. 


(Jttaine's  (glen. 


"p\EATH  came  out  of  the  black  night's  deep, 

And  steered  for  a  battle-ship's  side  ; 
But  never  a  man  of  the  sailor  clan 
Looked  on  the  Deathman's  ride. 

The  Kansas  lad  and  the  Hampshire  boy, 

And  the  boy  from  Tennessee, 
With  never  a  fear  that  death  was  near, 

Swung  into  eternity. 

Nor  flag,  nor  shot,  nor  battle-cry, 

Nor  strain  of  the  Nation's  air, 
Broke  into  the  gloom  of  the  sailor's  doom, 

Nor  yet  a  priestly  prayer. 

There  looks  a  face  from  a  far-away  home, 

With  eye  bent  on  the  sea, 
For  the  Hampshire  Jack  who'll  ne'er  come  back, 

Nor  the  lad  from  Tennessee. 

Not  theirs  was  the  glory  of  battle 

No  victory  crowned  the  day, 
But  a  Nation  weeps  that  the  dark  sea  keeps 

Her  dead  beneath  the  bay. 

—  Mexico  Two  Republics. 

221 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


of 


"\7"OU  may  take  the  thirteen-inchers, 

And  the  eights  and  six  and  fours ; 
You  may  take  the  heavy  battery, 
And  the  rain  of  shells  it  pours ; 
You  may  take  the  grim  projectile 

And  the  mighty  solid  shot, 
But  we,  the  rapid-firers, 

Are  the  guns  that  make  things  hot. 
Oh,  it's  swift  the  turrets  swing  us, 

And  with  steady,  ready  ken 
We  reach  the  decks  and  sweep  them 

With  their  living  walls  of  men ! 
It's  ping,  and  sping,  and  splutter, 

And  it's  beautiful  to  be 
The  tenors  in  the  chorus 
That  is  sung  across  the  sea ! 

Swing  your  broadside  into  action, 

Let  the  forward  turrets  play, 
Hark  the  thunder  of  the  cannon 

As  they  dance  in  death's  chasse* ! 
Sweep  the  courses  with  the  squadron, 

Let  them  give  and  take  again, 

222 


SONG   OF   THE   RAPID -FIRES. 


Send  the  foe  the  thunder-challenge,  — 
But  it's  we  that  take  the  men ! 
Oh,  it's  terrible  to  hear  us, 

And  it's  lively  when  we  sing, 
As  across  the  heaving  billows 

To  the  foemen's  deck  we  spring ; 
We  are  tenors  of  the  chorus, 

But  on  starboard  or  on  lee 
We  are  heard  above  the  thunder 

That  is  sung  across  the  sea ! 

We  are  flame  and  fire  and  terror, 

We  are  twenty  to  their  one ; 
We  are  up  again  and  at  them 

Ere  they  charge  the  heavy  gun ; 
And  our  lips  are  red  with  battle, 

And  our  throats  are  hoarse  with  smoke, 
When  we  land  upon  their  quarter 
And  they  feel  our  lightning  stroke. 
Oh, -it's  rapid,  rapid,  rapid, 

Jolly  rapid-fires  are  we, 
Singing  'round  the  ranging  turret 

And  across  the  surging  sea. 
We  are  brothers  to  the  heavies 

And  we  strike  where  they  have  missed, 
And  there's  doom  upon  the  quarter 
Where  our  twenty  bolts  have  kissed. 

223 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Swing  the  pounders  into  action, 

We  shall  beat  the  batteries  yet ! 
From  the  furnace  to  the  funnel, 

Where  the  naked  seamen  sweat, 
We  are  heard  amid  the  chorus, 

And  they  know  our  surging  shout, 
As  we  sing  across  the  waters 
From  our  triple-steel  redoubt. 
Oh,  it's  rip  and  roar  and  rumble 

When  the  thirteens  sink  the  foe, 
And  it's  death  upon  the  billows 
When  the  solid  pounders  go ; 
But  it's  swift  the  turrets  swing  us 

And  with  steady,  ready  ken 
We  search  the  decks  and  sweep  them 
With  their  living  walls  of  men  ! 

—  Baltimore  News. 


224 


TO    SPAIN  — A   LAST    WORD. 


to  JJpain  —  $  feagf 


TBERIAN!    palter  no   more!      By   thine   hands, 

thine  alone,  they  were  slain! 
Oh,  'twas  a  deed  in  the  dark  — 
Yet  mark  ! 

We  will  show  you  a  way  —  only  one  —  by  which  ye 
may  blot  out  the  stain  ! 


Build   them  a  monument  whom   to   death-sleep,  in 

their  sleep,  ye  betrayed  ! 
Proud  and  stern  let  it  be  — 

Cuba  free  ! 

So,  only,  the  stain  shall  be  razed  —  so,  only,  the  great 
debt  be  paid  ! 

—  Edith  M.  Thomas. 


225 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Originally  published  in  1858. 

ER  thy  purple  hills,  O  Cuba  ! 

Through  thy  valleys  of  romance, 
All  thy  glorious  dreams  of  freedom 
Are  but  dreamt  as  in  a  trance. 

Mountain  pass  and  fruitful  valley, 
Mural  town  and  spreading  plain, 

Show  the  footsteps  of  the  Spaniard, 
In  his  burning  lust  for  gain. 

Since  the  caravel  of  Colon 
Grated  first  upon  thy  strand, 

Ev'rything  about  thee,  Cuba, 
Shows  the  iron  Spanish  hand. 

Hear  that  crash  of  martial  music  ? 

From  the  plaza  how  it  swells  ! 
How  it  trembles  with  the  meaning 

Of  the  story  that  it  tells  ! 

Turn  thy  steps  up  to  Artares,  — 
There  was  done  a  deed  of  shame  ! 

Helpless  men  were  coldly  butchered, 
'Tis  a  part  of  Spanish  fame. 

226 


CUBA. 


Wander  now  down  to  the  Punta,  — 
Lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  throat,  — 

Thou  wilt  see  a  Spanish  emblem 
In  the  dark  and  grim  garrote. 

In  the  Moro,  —  in  the  Market, — 
In  the  shadow,  —  in  the  sun,  — 

Thou  wilt  see  the  bearded  Spaniard, 
Where  a  gold  piece  may  be  won. 

And  they  fatten  on  thee,  Cuba ! 

Gay  Soldado,  —  cunning  priest,  — 
How  these  vultures  flock  and  hover, 

On  thy  tortured  breast  to  feast ! 

Thou  Prometheus  of  the  ocean, 

Bound  down,  —  not  for  what  thou'st  done, 
But  for  fear  thy  social  statue 

Should  start  living  in  the  sun ! 

And  we  give  thee  tears,  O  Cuba ! 

And  our  prayers  to  God  uplift, 
That  at  last  the  flame  celestial 

May  come  down  to  thee,  —  a  gift ! 

— /.  B.  Hope. 


227 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


CHE  is  fighting  for  her  freedom,  striving  hard  to 

rend  in  twain 
The  base  chains  that  hold  her  captive  at  the  feet  of 

cruel  Spain, 
While  the  iron  hand  of  power,  stretching  out  across 

the  sea, 
Seeks  to  crush  the  infant  nation  in  her  struggle  to  be 

4V«« 


Like  fierce  wolves  the  armored  war-ships  flock  about 
her  naked  coasts, 

And  her  verdant  fields  are  trampled  by  the  feet  of 
hostile  hosts. 

Grim  Destruction's  form  stalks  onward  in  the  battle- 
blighted  path, 

Smiting  all  her  land  with  terror  in  his  dire,  unsparing 
wrath. 


There  is  not  an  arm  to  shield  her,  and  no  helping 

hand  is  found, 
That  will  aid  to  break  the  fetters  that  so  long  have 

held  her  bound. 

228 


CUBA. 


All  the  nations  gaze  with  coldness  at  her  travail  and 

*  her  woe, 

Leaving  her  alone  to  grapple  with  her  stern,  relentless 
foe. 

She  may  fail,  —  sink  overpower'd  by  the  fierce  in- 
vading bands, 

And  her  good  lance  fall  in  splinters  from  her  firm, 
unflinching  hands, 

For  the  battle  is  not  always  with  the  ones  whose 
cause  is  just, 

And  the  tyrant's  sword  has  sometimes  laid  fair  Free- 
dom in  the  dust. 

She  may  sink,  like  poor,  lost  Poland,  vanquished  in  a 

righteous  fray, 
And  Oppression's  cruel  vultures  flock  about   their 

helpless  prey ; 
But  the  kindly  hearts  of  millions,  loving  liberty  and 

right, 
Beat  for  her  in  her  brave  struggle,  in  her  thraldom, 

and  her  night. 

— James  Gardner. 


229 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


1897- 


S~\  GOD  !  that  I  might  breathe  of  Freedom's  air  ; 

Alone  I  weep  to-day,  alone,  forlorn,  — 
Twin  sister  of  pale  Sorrow,  wan  and  worn  ; 
Low,  low  I  kneel  with  dark  dishevelled  hair. 

My  noblest,  bravest  sons  lie  starving  where 
Grim  Morro  looms  on  high  ;  my  flesh  is  torn 
And  bleeding  from  the  tyrant's  lash  ;  I  mourn 

My  children  slain  ;  I  cry  in  my  despair 

For  some  protecting  arm,  —  some  flashing  sword 
Upraised  in  my  defence  ;  I  cry,  and  yet 

All  lands  stand  dumb  and  will  not  answer  me. 
How  long  ere  my  deep  prayer  be  heard,  O  Lord, 
How  long  ere  my  bruised  feet  be  firmly  set 
Upon  the  radiant  peak  of  Liberty  ? 

—  Herbert  Bashford. 


230 


CUBA,    1898. 


1898. 


T   AND  of  languor  and  of  beauty,  where  the  tawny 

sunset  blending 
In  a  blaze  of  gold  and  scarlet  from  the  hillside  to 

the  sea,  — 
Where  the  rose-scent  softly  lingers  and  the  drowsy 

palms  are  bending 

In  a  reverent  obeisance  ere  the  day  shall  cease  to 
be; 

Land  of  music  and  of  moonlight,  where  the  gorgeous 

flowers  are  gleaming 
In  chaotic  chords  of  color  in  the  palace  gardens 

fair, 
And  the  fountains  sing  and  tinkle  in  the  wonder  of 

your  dreaming, 

And  the  birds  of  brilliant  plumage  flash  and  flame 
upon  the  air  ; 

Land  of  legend  and  of  story,  with  your  sultriness  and 

splendor, 
And  your  skies  of  purest  sapphire  so  ethereally 

blue; 
All  the  universe  has  wakened  to  a  vast  compassion 

tender, 

231 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

And  the  sons  of  men  stand  breathless,  for  the  world 
is  watching  you. 

In  the  majesty  of  morning,  when  the  sunshine  spreads 

and  glistens 
In  a  myriad  shining  spangles  on  the  forest  and  the 

sward, 
Rings  the  war-cry  of  your  legions ;  and  the  poltroon 

Spaniard  listens, 

And  he  trembles  in  an  ague  at  the  slogan  of  the 
sword. 

In  the  marshes  and  morasses,  where  the  "cobra  coils 

and  hisses, 
And   your  heroes  who   have   fallen  in   the   fight 

serenely  lie ; 
All   their   sleeping   is    the   sweeter   for    the    tender 

breeze's  kisses,  — 

And  the  buzzard  sails  and  circles  like  a  sentinel  on 
high. 

Cuba  !  —  Paradise  of  beauty !  —  Hell  of  tyrant's  cold 

devising !  — 
Made  a  shambles  and  a  charnel-house  thro'  twice 

a  hundred  years ! 
I  can  hear  the  utter  anguish  of  a  million  mothers 

rising 

232 


CUBA,    1898. 


In  a  wilderness  of  weeping,  —  in  a  hurricane  of 
tears ! 

Stand  to  arms,  you  men  of  valor !     For  the  conflict's 

almost  over, 
And  the  waking  world  stands  panting  to  acclaim  a 

people  free ; 
For  the  fetters  fall  and  crumble,  and  the  Spaniard 

skulks  to  cover, 

As  the  bells  clang  out  a  tocsin  from  the  mountains 
to  the  sea. 

And  your  land  shall  live  in  loveliness !     The  hillside 

and  the  river 

And  the  flowers  that  bloom  and  bourgeon  shall  pro- 
claim the  glad  release ; 
And  your  name  shall  stand  untarnished  on  the  Scroll 

of  Fame  forever ; 

You  have  fought  and  bled  for  glory,  —  you  shall 
know  the  bliss  of  peace. 

—  Harold  R.  Vynne. 


233 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


(Battering. 


"V\7"E    are    coming,    Cuba,  —  coming;    our    starry 

banner  shines 
Above  the  swarming  legions,  sweeping  downward 

to  the  sea. 
From  Northern  hill,  and  Western  plain,  and  tower- 

ing Southern  pines 

The  serried  hosts  are  gathering,  —  and  Cuba  shall 
be  free. 


We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming.     Thy  sturdy  pa- 
triots brave, 
Who  fight  as  fought  our  fathers  in  the  old  time 

long  ago, 
Shall  see  the   Spanish  squadrons  sink  beneath  the 

whelming  wave, 

And  plant  their  own  loved  banner  on  the  ramparts 
of  their  foe. 


We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming.     Across  the  bil- 
low's foam 

Our  gallant  ships  are  bearing  our  bravest  down  to 
thee, 

234 


THE   GATHERING. 


While  earnest  prayers  are  rising  from  every  free- 
man's home 

That  freedom's  God  may  lead  them  on,  and  Cuba 
shall  be  free. 

—  Herbert  B.  Sivett. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


on. 

TirE  heard  the  music  ringing  from  the  camps  of 

long  ago ; 
The  solemn  tramp  of  armies,  as  they  marched  to 

meet  the  foe ; 
We  echo  back  their  battle-song,  that  all  the  world 

may  know 
Our  flag  is  marching  on ! 

CHORUS. 

Long  ago  tWe  boys  were  marching ; 
North  and  South  to  battle  marching ; 
Now  together  they  are  marching,  — 

Together  marching  on. 
Marching  on  to  fields  of  glory, 
Marching  on  to  deeds  of  glory, 
Hear  again  the  nation's  story,  — 

Our  boys  are  marching  on ! 

We  heard  the  bugle  calling  to  the  sons  of  Blue  and 
Gray; 

Our  veterans  were  falling,  one  by  one,  beside  the 
way; 

They'll  join  with  us  in  singing,  on  their  next   Me- 
morial day,  — 
Our  boys  are  marching  on  ! 

236 


OUR   BOYS   ARE   MARCHING   ON. 


CHORUS. 

Blue  and  Gray  are  now  united ; 
North  and  South  are  now  united ; 
'Round  the  flag  with  hearts  united,  — 

Together  marching  on. 
Marching  on  to  fields  of  glory ; 
Marching  on  to  deeds  of  glory ; 
Hear  again  their  ringing  story,  — 

Our  boys  are  marching  on  ! 

We  heard  the  voice  of  wailing,  —  Cuba  writhing  in 

her  pain ; 
"  Deliver  us,  your  neighbors,  from  the  clutch  of  cruel 

Spain." 
We  are  coming,  Cuba  libre,  to  redeem  you  and  the 

Maine,  — 
Old  Glory's  marching  on ! 

CHORUS. 

Spain  must  go,  and  go  forever ; 
Cuba's  chains  the  sword  must  sever ; 
Yanks  and  Johnnies  falter  never,  — 

Together  marching  on. 
Marching  on  to  fields  of  glory ; 
Marching  on  to  deeds  of  glory ; 
Sing  again  the  dear  old  story,  — 

Of  Freedom  marching  on ! 

237 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 

There's  a  breeze  from  off  the  ocean,  bringing  mem- 
ories of  the  past ; 

Of  the  flag  that  waved  in  triumph,  —  we  will  nail  it 
to  the  mast ! 

There  is  glory  for  our  Navy,  and  for  Spain  the  die  is 

cast,  — 
Our  Navy's  sailing  on  ! 

CHORUS. 

Sailing  on,  with  Dewey  sailing ; 
Sailing  on,  with  Sampson  sailing; 
Sailing  on,  our  Schley  is  sailing, 

Wherever  glory's  won. 
Glory,  glory  for  our  Navy  ; 
Glory,  glory  for  our  Navy ; 
Hear  the  echoes  from  our  Navy ; 

Our  Navy's  sailing  on  ! 

—John  H.  Jewett. 


238 


BATTLE -SHIP   AND   TORPEDO-BOAT. 


C  MOOTH  and  lean,  —  they  have  stripped  her 
clean 

Down  to  her  leering  guns. 
A-weather  and  lee  she  smashes  the  sea 

With  her  weight  of  ten  thousand  tons, 
From  bow  to  stern  her  watchers  turn 

The  beams  of  her  searching  suns. 

A-wash,  half-drowned,  we  speed  around 

To  beat  the  veering  light, 
For  she  must  see,  ere  her  fangs  are  free, 

That  she  may  begin  to  bite, 
And  we  laugh  where  we  lie,  at  the  blundering  eye 

That  misses  us  in  the  night. 

They  have  freighted  her  with  five  hundred  men ; 

She  is  fierce  with  rifled  guns ; 
But  she  cannot  mark,  as  she  rolls  in  the  dark, 

The  death  that  comes  and  runs. 
We  flit  as  a  mist-wreath  on  the  sea, 

And  ere  her  topmen  leap 
We  have  struck  and  fled,  and  the  riven  dead 

Are  sucked  in  the  whirling  deep. 

— /.  W.  M. 


239 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


in  ffje 


FIRST   RIFLE. 

/^AN  you  see  her,  O  my  brother? 

Can  you  sight  her  through  the  rack  ? 
Is  that  streak  across  the  smother 

Coal  smoke  trailing  from  a  stack  ? 
Do  you  hear  how  louder,  clearer 

Sounds  the  throbbing  of  our  screws  ? 
When  we  come  a  little  nearer, 

Which  of  us  shall  hail  her  ?     Choose  ! 

SECOND    RIFLE. 

Let  me  send  a  brief  opinion 

Of  the  murders  on  the  Maine; 
Of  the  Eagle's  new  dominion, 

When  we've  closed  accounts  with  Spain,  — 
There,  they've  passed  the  word  to  crowd  her, 

Here's  our  squad,  too,  on  the  run. 
Glad  we've  got  this  smokeless  powder. 

Now,  look  out,  —  you'll  see  the  fun. 

FIRST   RIFLE. 

Are  you  ready,  brother,  ready 
With  your  thunderbolt  of  steel  ? 

240 


THE   TWINS   IN   THE    TURRET. 

Have  they  got  your  bearings  steady  ? 

Gods,  you  made  the  whole  world  reel ! 
Now  it's  my  turn  ;  what,  you  hit  her 

In  her  vitals  ?     Oh,  what  bliss  ! 
There  is  naught  in  life  as  bitter 

For  a  rifle  as  a  miss. 

SECOND    RIFLE. 

All  hell's  loose ;  there's  no  use  talking. 

That's  the  time  you  ripped  her  wide  ! 
Look,  there's  Davy  Jones  a-walking, 

Picking  Spaniards  from  the  tide. 
Hi !  But  it's  a  howling  racket, 

For  a  great,  long,  silent  gun ! 
Easy,  now,  don't  burst  your  jacket ! 

Our  death-dealing  work  is  done. 

— John  Paul  Bocock. 


241 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


JJgmn  of  <Dut 


T    HEAR  the  sound  at  midnight  of  the  tramp  of 

many  feet  ; 
It  rolls  from  country  highways,  it  echoes  from  the 

street  ; 
I  hear  its  murmurs  meet,  and  swell,  and  surge  like 

waters  fleet, 
Marching,  marching,  marching,  marching,  march- 

ing on  ! 

I  listen  in  the  daybreak  to  the  noise  of  rolling  cars, 
With  their  freight  of  living  valor  sweeping  south- 

ward to  the  wars  ; 
From   every  commonwealth   beneath   our   country's 

flashing  stars, 
Rolling,  rolling,  rolling,  rolling,  rolling  on  ! 

Through  the  morning  comes  a  wailing  up  from  over 

all  the  land, 
Mothers  weeping  for  their  sons  who  pass  among  the 

moving  band, 
Wives  mourning  for   the  husbands  they  have  lent 

with  loyal  hand 
To  their  country's  risen  legions  marching  on. 

242 


A   HYMN   OF   OUR  ARMIES. 


There  are  flashes  —  not  of  sunrise  —  from  the  islands 

far  a-sea, 
Where  the  mists  are  shot  with  lightnings  of  the  hot 

artillery, 
And  the  cloud  of  battle  brightens  with  the  sun  of 

victory, 
In  the  eyes  of  many  nations  shining  on. 

And  my  spirit  hears  an  answer  from  the  islands  of 

the  south, 
Where  the  nation's  heart  is  speaking  through  the 

cannon's  smoky  mouth; 
'Tis  the  voice  of  burdened  peoples,  from  amid  their 

pain  and  drouth, 
Shouting  glory  to  the  mighty  marching  on  ! 

And  while    I   watch    and  listen,   my  soul  within  is 

stirred, 
And  I  catch  a  gladder  message  than  mine  ears  to-day 

have  heard, 
'Tis  the  spirit  of  my  country  with  her  everlasting 

word 
Chanting  freedom  to  all  people  drawing  on. 

As  it  was  from  the  beginning,  to  the  end  that  word 
shall  be 

243 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

God's  light  to  peoples  captive,  God's  life  to  peoples 

free. 
Speaking  nearer,  clearer,  dearer,  its  sweet  creed  of 

liberty, 
To  the  heights  of  noblest  glory  rolling  on ! 

—  O.  C.  Auringer. 


244 


FOR   CUBA. 


Sot  £u6a. 

"VT  O  precedent,  ye  say, 

To  point  the  glorious  way 
Towards  help  for  one  downtrod  in  blood  and  tears  ? 

Brothers,  'tis  time  there  were  ! 

We  bare  our  swords  for  her, 
And  set  a  model  for  the  coming  years ! 

This  act,  to  end  her  pain, 

Without  a  hope  of  gain, 
Its  like  on  history's  page  where  can  ye  read  ? 

Humanity  and  God 

Call  us  to  paths  untrod  ! 
On,  brothers,  on !  we  follow  not,  but  lead ! 

—  Robert  Howry  Bell. 


245 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


QXnber 


T_T  IGH  on  the  world  did  our  fathers  of  old, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes, 
Blazon  the  name  that  we  now  must  uphold, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes. 
Vast  in  the  past  they  have  builded  an  arch 
Over  which  freedom  has  lighted  her  torch. 
Follow  it !     Follow  it !    Come,  let  us  march 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes  ! 

We  in  whose  bodies  the  blood  of  them  runs, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes, 
We  will  acquit  us  as  sons  of  their  sons, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes, 
Ever  for  justice,  our  heel  upon  wrong, 
We  in  the  light  of  our  vengeance  thrice  strong ! 
Rally  together !     Come  tramping  along 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes ! 

Out  of  our  strength  and  a  nation's  great  need, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes, 
Heroes  again  as  of  old* we  shall  breed, 

Under  the  stars  and  stripes. 

246 


UNDER   THE   STARS   AND    STRIPES. 

Broad  to  the  winds  be  our  banner  unfurled  ! 
Straight  in  Spain's  face  let  defiance  be  hurled  ! 
God  on  our  side,  we  will  battle  the  world 
Under  the  stars  and  stripes  ! 

—  Madison  Cawein. 


247 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


JJong  of  QJtanifa. 


A  S  it  began  to  dawn,  you  know, 

Just  at  the  peep  of  day, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  was  fully  up 
Above  Manila  Bay,  — 

We  crept  into  their  port,  my  boy, 

Their  crews  were  sound  asleep  ; 
Crept  close  upon  their  forts  and  ships, 

Glassed  in  the  quiet  deep. 

But  when  the  Spanish  sluggards  woke, 

Upspringing  with  the  sun, 
They  sent  across  the  shining  wave 

A  booming,  harmless  gun. 

No  answer  first,  —  we  but  swept  on  ; 

Then  lo  !  a  flash  of  flame, 
A  sound  of  thunder,  —  ha,  my  boy, 

And  thus  began  our  game  ! 

How  roared  the  cannon,  sang  the  bombs, 

And  whistled  shell  and  shot  ; 
How  crashed  their  splintered  masts  and  spars 

As  all  the  air  grew  hot  ! 

248 


THE   SONG   OF    MANILA. 


How  worked  our  tars,  —  a  hero  each,  — 

Their  sooty  breasts  swelled  high, 
Remembering  that  on  us  was  fixed 

Our  country's  grateful  eye  ! 

And  that  while  through  black  clouds  of  smoke 

The  sun  gleamed  fiery  red, 
There  flew,  with  every  star  undimmed, 

Old  Glory  overhead ! 

And  through  it  all  God's  hand,  my  boy, 

In  this  fierce  fight  was  plain  ; 
Not  one  brave  lad  of  ours  fell  dead, 

As  we  avenged  the  Maine  / 

But  scores  of  Spanish,  —  and  they,  too, 

Had  done  their  duty  well,  — 
May  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls, 

Be  they  in  heaven  or  hell ! 

Their  ships  we  captured,  sunk  or  burned, 

And  live  a  thousand  years, 
I'll  thank  the  Lord  I,  too,  was  there,— 

Hear  still  our  ringing  clieers  ! 

Hail  to  our  noble  Commodore, 

For  deeds  so  glorious  done, 
Praise  to  a  greater  Captain  still, 

For  such  a  victory  won. 

249 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

As  echoing  through  all  time,  will  tell 

About  Manila  Bay, 
What  manhood  dared,  how  freedom  fought, 

On  that  immortal  day ! 

—  Stuart  Sterne. 


250 


THE   RED   AND   THE   BLUE. 


anb  f(Je  (gfue. 


S~\  H,  Johnny  Bull  !  you  know,  John, 
^^^     "  Since  we  have  been  acquaint," 
Your  many  little  tricks  would  try 

The  patience  of  a  saint. 
But  with  the  world  against  you 

A  sturdy  front  you  show  ; 
I  guess  we'll  have  to  back  you, 

And  let  old  bygones  go  ! 

You've  proved  a  valiant  foe,  John, 

In  many  a  bloody  fight; 
So  now  we'll  stand  together, 

And  strike  for  truth  and  right. 
And  should  the  foreign  beagles 

Bay  the  lion  in  his  lair, 
You'll  find  the  Yankee  eagle's 

Beak  and  talons  will  be  bare  ! 

What  though  our  name  be  changed,  John, 
It  has  not  changed  the  breed, 

Both  stately  trees  have  sprung  from 
The  Anglo-Saxon  seed. 

Both  nations'  rights  are  equal, 
Wrung  from  a  monarch's  greed, 

251 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Our  Seventy-six  the  sequel 
Of  glorious  Runnymede ! 

Grip  hands  across  the  ocean, 

And  should  there  come  a  time,  — 
When  needed,  —  I've  a  notion 

You'll  see  the  "  thin  red  line." 
With  shoulder  pressed  to  shoulder, 

Stanch  friends  and  comrades  true, 
Old  England's  scarlet  Tommies, 

And  our  bold  boys  in  blue. 

Fling  out  the  red  cross  banner ! 

Too  long  has  it  been  furled. 
We'll  plant  "  Old  Glory  "  by  its  side 

And  then  defy  the  world ! 
Woe  to  the  foreign  foemen 

Who  front  the  battle-line, 
Where  Johnny's  cross  and  Sammy's  stars 

Their  colors  bright  entwine  ! 

—  H.  A.  Roby. 


252 


THE   NEW   TOREADOR. 


£0e  (tteia 

T)  RAVO,  Jonathan  !     Now's  your  time,  — 
We're  getting  tired  of  brag  and  bluster, 
Make  a  bid  for  the  true  sublime,  — 

Add  to  honor  the  final  lustre. 
Banderillos  were  very  well, 

Waving  scarfs  and  avoiding  dances ; 
Now  comes  the  struggle,  —  who  can  tell 

Upon  which  side  are  the  better  chances? 

Wait  till  the  ring  begins  to  hum, 

Ramping  and  snorting,  stamping,  raging, 
With  blare  of  trumpets  and  roll  of  drums, 

But  doesn't  quite  know  whom  he's  engaging. 
Wait  there,  Jonathan,  calm  and  cool ; 

More  than  your  match  some  people  think  him. 
Never  mind  that,  —  keep  cool,  and  you'll 

Remain  unhurt  while  you  deftly  pink  him. 

Steady,  Jonathan !  All  mankind 

Gazes  at  you  in  silent  wonder. 
Most,  to  your  virtues  deaf  and  blind, 

Think  your  attitude's  just  a  blunder. 
Britain,  however,  is  stanch  and  true, 

On  your  side  are  our  hearts  enlisted ! 

253 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Maybe,  sir,  'twill  occur  to  you 

That  we  might  turn  the  tail  you've  often  twisted. 


Blood  of  our  blood,  we  are  all  for  you, 

Against  whomever  you  make  attacks  on. 
The  racial  tie,  though  strained,  holds  true. 

"  Bully  for  you  !  "  cries  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
Moral  support  is  all  you  need, 

Else  had  we  strode  "  the  ring  "  together,  — 
Until  the  wide  world's  saved  and  freed, 

Bound  are  we  in  a  moral  tether. 


Stand  firm,  Jonathan,  let  him  come. 

What's  the  use  of  some  little  brushes  ? 
Wait  till  the  ring  begins  to  hum 

With  the  wildest  rush  of  his  angry  rushes. 
Stand  firm,  Jonathan  !     He's  at  bay  ; 

His  wrath  he  never  can  calm  or  smother. 
Stand  you  firm,  for  the  coming  fray 

Means  death  for  one  or  death  for  the  other. 


One  of  his  breed,  long  years  ago, 

With  desperate,  deadly,  stern  insistence, 

With  equal  wrath  and  greater  show 
Threatened  our  national  existence. 


254 


THE   NEW    TOREADOR. 


Then  we  baited  him,  —  drove  him  back,  — 
The  old  sea-dogs  rushed  out  to  meet  him ; 

Taught  him  a  lesson  in  attack ; 

Showed  him  how  Englishmen  meant  to  greet  him. 


Feebler  son  of  that  far-off  sire,  — 

Still  he'll  fight,  for  there's  no  retreating ; 
Feebler,  aye,  but  the  self-same  ire, 

Still  a  foe  who  will  take  some  beating. 
Stand  firm,  Jonathan,  — show  your  pluck  ; 

Sooner  or  later  you're  bound  to  meet  him. 
Face  him  valiantly,  and,  with  luck 

Helping  you,  you  will  soundly  beat  him. 


Yours  the  strength  of  the  Saxon  race, 

Heart  of  oak,  in  its  steel  nerves  banded, 
Death  and  danger  you  still  may  face, 

Open  foe  or  the  underhanded. 
Quietly  does  it.     Wait  his  rush,  — 

Keep  your  power  still  undiminished. 
Strike,  as  upon  you  he  seems  to  crush,  — 

Strike,  and  the  deadly  fray  is  finished. 

Bravo,  Jonathan  !     Now's  your  time. 
Gone  forever  the  days  of  bluster. 

255 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Make  a  bid  for  the  true  sublime 

With  all  the  power  that  you  can  muster. 

Banderillos  were  very  well, 

Waving  scarfs  and  avoiding  dances ; 

Now  comes  the  struggle ;  skill  will  tell, 

Conquering  weight  and  compelling  chances. 

—  London  Fun. 


256 


BENEATH   THE   FLAG. 


/^JN  the  sunny  hillside  sleeping, 

On  the  calm  and  placid  plain, 
By  the  rivers  swiftly  sweeping, 

By  the  rudely  roaring  main, 
Lie  the  men  who  saved  the  nation 

In  the  dark  hour  long  ago, 
Meeting  death  with  proud  elation 

From  a  brave  but  erring  foe. 

In  their  earthly  sleep  unending 

Do  the  nations  martyred  sons 
Hear  the  war  shouts  hoarsely  blending 

With  the  booming  of  the  guns  ? 
Do  they  quicken  at  the  rattle 

As  the  mighty  band  sweeps  by? 
Do  they  see  that  still  in  battle 

Heroes  rise  to  do  or  die  ? 


Let  us  hope  these  warriors  knighted 
In  the  bright  hereafter  know 

That  our  nation  firm  united 
Faces  now  a  common  foe ; 

257 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


That  beneath  the  dear  Old  Glory, 
Clearing  freedom's  splendid  way, 

Adding  lustre  to  its  story, 

Side  by  side  march  Blue  and  Gray  ! 

—  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 


PATRIOTISM   AT   SQUAWVILLE. 


(patriotism  at 

'TMMES  is  mighty  dull  at  Squawville,  an'  we've 

nothin'  else  to  do, 
Fur  to  serve  as  daily  pastime  and  to  keep  from  gittin' 

blue, 
But  to  loaf  around  the  gin-mill  an'  discuss  the  latest 

news, 
An'  absorb  the  fiery  substance  known  to  scientists  as 

booze. 
A-discussin'  of  the  rumpus  with  the  Spaniards,  pro 

and  con, 
Has  become  the  leadin'  feature ;  we  begin  the  gab  at 

dawn 
When  we  sip  our  mornin'  bracer,  an'  we  talk  about 

the  fight 
Till  we  go  a-whoopin'   homeward   quite    how-come- 

you-so  at  night. 

There's  a  dif'rence  of  opinion  as  to  how  the  powers 

that  are 
Back  at  Washington  assembled  should  proceed  to 

run  the  war; 
But  upon  the  vital  question  that  oP  Cuba  should  be 

free 
As  a  comprehensive  unit  we  unanimous  agree. 

259 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

As  the  news  kep'  gittin'  hotter  all  our  patr'otism  riz, 
In  a  figgerative  manner,  till  you  'most  could  hear 

it  sizz, 
An'  at  frequent  intermissions  while  a  chawin'  of  the 

rag, 
We  would  cheer  fur  Uncle  Samuel  an'  the  country 

an'  the  flag. 

Never  had  a  bit  o'  trouble  on  the  argumentive  deal 
Till  ol'   Poker   Billy  Davis   made  a  quite   disloyal 

squeal 
By  a-sayin'  that  he  soldiered   fur  the  cause  that's 

vanished  hence, 
An'  he's  never  liked  a  Yankee  wuth  a  continental 

sence. 
He  had  hit  the  bowl  that  mornin'  in  a  too  extensive 

way, 
Which  undoubtedly  accounted  fur  his  wild  an'  fatal 

play; 

Fur  his  craziness  resulted  in  the  diggin'  of  a  hole, 
An'  a  mortuary  drama,  —  William  in  the  leadin'  role. 

We  jes'  grabbed  the  boozy  blower,  an'  we  run  him 

to  the  bar, 
An'  we  made  him  drink  a  swaller  to  each  indivijul 

star 

260 


PATRIOTISM   AT   SQUAWVILLE. 


On  the  flag  he  had  insulted,  till  we  filled  him  to  the 

throat, 

An'  till  every  vital  organ  in  his  system  was  afloat. 
Sich  a  load  o'  liquid  pizen  would  have  killed  an  army 

mule, 
Which   was   what   the   stuff    accomplished   fur  the 

Yankee-hatin'  fool, 
An'  the  only  one  that  mourned  him  was  oF  Crazy 

Jane  McGill, 
Her  that  runs  the  boardin'  shanty,  whom  the  same  he 

owed  a  bill. 

—  Denver  Post. 


201 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


1Y/T  Y  brother  Jim,  he's  in  the  regiment,  an'  he 

Says  he's  goin'  down  to  fight 
Soon  as  the  soldiers  ever  start,  an'  gee  ! 

Maybe  they'll  go  to-night ! 
He's  got  a  suit  just  like  a  p'liceman,  too, 

An'  soldier  cap  an'  gun. 
He  says  they'll  show  the  folks  what  they  can  do, 

He  thinks  it'll  be  fun! 

But  ma,  she  says  she  don't  want  him  to  go, 

'Cause  she's  afraid,  I  guess. 
An'  so,  las'  night  she  was  a-cryin'  so 

When  Jim  said  that  unless 
She'd  want  to  have  a  coward  for  a  son 

He'd  have  to  go  an'  fight, 
That  seemed  just  like  she  never  would  get  done, 

But  cried  an'  cried  all  night. 

An'  sis  told  Jim  that  if  they  went  away 

She  thought  it  was  a  shame, 
An'  cried  when  Jim  said  'twas  a  lucky  day 

To  show  that  we  are  game ; 
Sis  liked  Jim  in  his  suit  an'  cap,  an'  so 

I  thought  she  wouldn't  care, 


THE   GUARDSMAN. 

But  she  took  on  an'  cried  just  like  as  though 
He's  goin'  to  die  down  there ! 

But  pa,  you  know  he  never  said  a  word, 

Just  like  he  couldn't  talk. 
But  just  shook  hands  with  Jim,  like  this,  real 
hard, 

An'  went  to  take  a  walk ; 
An'  bimeby  I  went  out  to  try  an'  meet 

The  kids,  you  know,  an'  do 
Something,  an'  pa  was  walkin'  up  the  street, 

An'  he  was  cryin',  too. 

—  Frank  X.  Finnegan. 


263 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


ice  of  f0e  £)regon. 


"yOU  have  called  to  me,  my  brothers,  from  your 

far-off  eastern  sea, 
To  join  with  you,  my  brothers,  to  set  a  prostrate 

people  free. 
You  have  called  to  me,  my  brothers,  to  join  to  yours 

my  might, 
The  slaughterers  of  our  brethren  with  our  armored 

hands  to  smite. 

We  have  never  met,  my  brothers,  we  mailed  knights 
of  the  sea ; 

But  there  are  no  strangers,  brothers,  'neath  the  Ban- 
ner of  the  Free ; 

And  though  half  a  world's  between  us,  and  ten 
thousand  leagues  divide, 

Our  souls  are  intermingled,  and  our  hearts  are  side 
by  side. 

Did  you   fail   to   call   me,  brothers,   'twere  a  fault 

without  atone, 
'Twas  but  just  to  me,  my  brothers,  you  should  not 

strike  alone. 

264 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   OREGON. 


The  brethren  in  the  slaughter  were  no  more  thine 

than  mine, 
And  the  blows  that  visit  vengeance  must  be  mine 

as  well  as  thine. 

Through  days  of  placid  beauty,  and  nights  when 

tempests  toss, 
I  follow  down  the  billows,  my  guide  the  Southern 

Cross ; 
Past  lands  of  quiet  splendor,  where  pleasant  waters 

lave ; 
Past  lands  whose  mountain  ramparts  fling  back  the 

crashing  wave. 

But  I  see  no  land  of  splendor,  and  I  see  no  land 

of  wrath; 

I  see  before  me  only  the  ocean's  heaving  path, 
And  I  plunge  along  that  pathway  like  a  giant  to  the 

fray, 
Who  hath  no  stomach  in  him  for  aught  that  might 

delay. 

I  am  nearing  you,  my  brothers,  for  the  western  sea's 
afar, 

And  the  ray  that  lights  my  course  now  is  the  gleam- 
ing Northern  Star. 

265 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


I  pray  you  wait,  my  brothers,  for  the  air  with  war  is 

rife, 
And  in  courtesy  of  knighthood  I  claim  to  share  the 

strife. 

In  the  winds  that  blow  about  me  the  voices  of  the 

dead 
Are  calling   to   me,  brothers,   to  urge  my  topmost 

speed. 
In  the  foam  that's  upward  flying  in  whirling  wreaths 

of  white, 
The  wraiths  of  murdered  brothers  beckon  onward 

to  the  fight. 

I  am  coming  to  you,  brothers,  wait  but  a  little  while, 
And  on  the  thunders  of  our  greeting  shall  the  God 

of  Vengeance  smile ; 
And  in  the  flashing  and  the  crashing,  the  universe 

shall  see 
How  we  pay  our  debts  of  honor,  we  mailed  knights 

of  the  sea. 

—  H.J.  D.  Browne. 


266 


WAR   POEM. 


$oem. 


C  TRIKE  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  ! 

Strike  for  the  Newer  Day  ! 
Oh,  strike  for  Heart,  and  strike  for 

Brain, 
And  sweep  the  Beast  away. 

Not  only  for  our  sailors, 
The  heroes  of  the  Maine, 

But  strike  for  all  the  victims 
Of  Moloch-minded  Spain. 

Not  only  for  the  Present, 
But  all  the  Bloody  Past, 

Oh,  strike  for  all  the  martyrs 
That  have  their  hour  at  last. 

Old  stronghold  of  the  Darkness, 
Come,  ruin  it  with  light  ! 

It  is  no  fight  of  small  revenge, 
'Tis  an  immortal  fight. 

Spain  is  an  ancient  dragon, 
That  all  too  long  hath  curled 

Its  coils  of  blood  and  darkness 
About  the  new-born  world. 

267 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Think  of  the  Inquisition  ! 

Think  of  the  Netherlands  ! 
Yea,  think  of  all  Spain's  bloody  deeds 

In  many  times  and  lands. 

And  let  no  feeble  pity 

Your  sacred  arms  restrain. 
This  is  God's  mighty  moment 

To  make  an  end  of  Spain. 

—  Richard  La  Gallienne. 


268 


THE   VOLUNTEER 


T^HE  band  was  playing  "  Dixie  "  when  he  marched, 
marched  away ; 

An'  never  any  likelier  lad  stept  time  to  it  that  day ; 

"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all ! "  I  heard  the  town- 
folk  say. 

The  band  was  playin'  "  Dixie "  as  he  marched, 
marched  away. 

How  fast  my  wild  arms  held  him,  —  my  boy,  who 

would  not  stay,  — 
The  likeliest  lad  that  answered  to  the  captain's  call 

that  day! 

"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all !  "     An'  in  the  red  array 
Of  flags  that  rippled  over  them  they  marched  my 

lad  away! 

But  a  mother's  fears  and  prayers  and  tears  were 
nothing.  War  must  slay, 

And  the  draped,  deep  drums  were  muffled  as  they 
brought  him  home  that  day! 

"  The  finest  fellow  of  'em  all ! "  I  heard  the  town- 
folk  say, 

And  his  mother  bendin'  over  him,  —  dead  at  her  feet 
that  day ! 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 

269 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(Regiment  Jiong. 

'IP HE  old  flag  is  a-doin'  of  her  very  level  best, — 
She's   a   rainbow  roun'   the   country  from   the 

rosy  east  to  west; 
An'  the  eagle's  in  the  elements  with  sunshine  on  his 

breast, 

An'    we're    marchin'    with    the    country    in    the 
mornin' ! 

We're  marchin'  to  the  music  that  is  ringin'  fur  an 

nigh ; 

You  kin  hear  the  hallelujahs  as  the  regiments  go  by; 
We'll  live  for  this  old  country,  or  in  Freedom's  cause 

we'll  die,  — 

We're  marchin'  with  the  country  in  the  mornin' ! 
—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


270 


A   PEACE -AT -ANY -PRICE   MAN. 


«A  17" AR  is  coming !     Blood  must  flow !  " 

Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 
"  We  must  meet  the  craven  foe  !  "  — 

Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 
"  There  are  wrongs  that  we  must  right. 
Freeborn  men,  prepare  to  fight ; 
'Tis  no  time  for  childish  fright "  — 

Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed ! 

"  Now  let  all  the  world  give  ear  "  — 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 

"  We've  begged  for  war  for  half  a  year  "  - 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 

"  The  President,  at  last,  is  stirred  ! 

We  have  spoken,  —  he  has  heard,  — 

Now,  then,  for  the  final  word  "  — 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed ! 

Clouds  of  war  obscure  the  sky  "  — 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 

Cuba's  hope  is  mounting  high  "  — 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  — 

271 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

"  Let  our  tars  prepare  to  fight, 
Let  them  battle  for  the  right "  -. 

I  start  for  Halifax  to-night, 
Mary,  get  my  satchel  packed  ! 

—  Baltimore  Life 


272 


UNCLE   SAM'S    SPRING   CLEANING. 


QJncfe  Jl&m's  J^ring  Cleaning. 

"''"pHERE  has  been  a  heap  of  rubbish  dumped 

about  the  patient  seas, 
And  all  cleaning  hitherto  has  been  a  sham ; 
It  is  time  for  my  spring  cleaning,  —  and  I  hope  you 

catch  my  meaning,  — 
For   I'm   going   to   clean   'em   out,"  says   Uncle 

Sam. 

"  And  I'm  going  to  rinse  'em  down, 
And  I'm  going  to  soak  'em  out, 
And   I'm  going  to  sponge   'em  off,  and  make  'em 

clean ; 
And  I'll  do  a  handsome  job  with  my  scrubbing 

brush  and  swab, 
And  I'll  give  a  different  aspect  to  the  scene. 

"  On  the  Philippines,  a  dumpground  for  the  mediae- 
val truck, 

And  the  old  miasmal  rubbish  heaps  of  Spain, 
I   began   my   vernal   cleaning,  —  and    I  think  they 

know  my  meaning,  — 

For  I  turned  my  hose  upon  them  at  full  strain, 
And  I  guess  I  swabbed  'em  down, 
And  I  guess  I  rubbed  it  in, 

273 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


And   I   guess    I    swashed   'em   off,   and   made   'em 

clean ; 
And  when  I've  wiped  'em  dry  with  my  army  mop, 

says  I, 
There'll  be  a  different  aspect  to  the  scene. 

"And  I'll  clean  off  Porto  Rico,  and  I'm  going  to 

wipe  it  dry, 

And  poor  filth-infested  Cuba  must  be  clean ; 
Four  hundred  years  of  lumber  that  its  rubbish  holes 

encumber,  — 

If  you  wait  you'll  see  it  burn  like  kerosene. 
And  I  guess  I'll  soap  'em  down, 
And  I  guess  I'll  scour  'em  off, 
And  I  guess  I'll  turn  my  hose  on  at  full  strain; 
And  then,  when  I  am  through,  then  old  Cuba  will 

be  new, 
And  there  won't  be  any  rubbish  heaps  of  Spain. 


"She  has  blotted  all  the  oceans,  and  I'll  wipe  her 

off  the  seas, 

And  I'll  cleanse  the  cluttered  islands  of  her  slime ; 
And  this  is  just  the  meaning  of  my  vigorous  spring 

cleaning,  — 

Fate's  washing  day  has  come,  —  and  it  is  time  ! 
And  I  guess  when  I  have  soaped  'em, 

274 


UNCLE    SAM'S    SPRING   CLEANING. 


And  I  guess  when  I  have  wrung  'em, 

And  I  guess  when  I  have  hung  'em  out  to  dry, 

Not   a   single   blot  of   Spain  on  an  island  shall 

remain, 
And  think  that  they'll  feel  cleaner  then,  says  I." 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 


275 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


/T*HE  phantom  sea  serenely  blue 

Beneath  the  sunshine  lay, 
And  bold  Cervera  sailed  his  ships 

Through  clouds  of  phantom  spray ; 
With  phantom  skill  he  steered  his  fleet 

For  many  a  phantom  day. 

One  phantom  morn  the  lookout  cried, 

"  A  sail !     I  see  a  sail !  " 
The  bold  Cervera,  undismayed, 

Turned  'round,  and  then  turned  pale ; 
Then  tried  to  turn  the  subject,  and 

Concluded  to  turn  tail. 

But  closer  to  Cervera  drew 
That  strangely  foreign  craft ; 

"  Is  she  a  Yank  ?  "  Cervera  cried ; 
For  answer  phantom  laught- 

Er  rolled  across  the  phantom  foam, 
Like  merriment  gone  daft. 

"  Wie  gehts,  alretty,  vonce  again  ! " 

Came  to  Cervera's  ear ; 
"  Ve  haf  peen  looging  ouid  py  you 

Dis  many  und  many  a  year ; 


THE    PHANTOMS. 


Und  now,  py  Chimineddy,  ve 
Are  glat  to  see  you  here !  " 

"  Oh,  who  are  you  ?  "  Cervera  cried, 

With  terror  in  each  tone. 
"  I  vos  der  Flying  Dutchman,  yet ! " 

Came  through  the  megaphone ; 
"  Und  I  am  glat  dot  nefermore 

I'll  sail  der  sea  alone." 

And  so,  across  the  phantom  deep, 

And  through  the  phantom  spray, 
Through  phantom  storms,  and  phantom 

calms, 

Through  phantom  night  and  day, 
The  Flying  Dutchman  and  the  Fly- 
Ing  Spaniard  sail  for  aye. 

—  Baltimore  News. 


277 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


3E>eroic 


are  not  dead  whose  names  we 
breathe 
With  trembling  voice  and  tear-dimmed 

eyes, 
For  whom  the  marble  shaft  we  wreathe 

With  garlands  of  immortal  dyes  ; 
Not  dead,  —  they  sleep,  while  angel  guards 

Patrol  their  camp  on  every  hand  ; 
Sweet  rest  at  last  their  toil  rewards 

Who  sought  to  save  their  leaguered  land. 

When  Liberty  assailed,  oppressed, 

Raised  up  her  voice  against  the  wrong, 
O  loyal  sons  of  dauntless  breast, 

How  firm  ye  stood  in  cordon  strong. 
A  hero's  soul  in  every  eye 

Fired  with  a  hero's  purpose  grand, 
For  liberty,  if  need,  to  die, 

Or,  living,  for  her  cause  to  stand. 

The  screaming  shot,  the  bursting  shell, 
The  long-roll  echoing  through  the  night, 

To  lead  the  charge  'mid  groan  and  yell, 
The  deadly  struggle  might  with  might. 

278 


THE    HEROIC    DEAD. 


The  bivouac  on  the  bloody  field 

Racked  with  the  pangs  of  wounds  and 
thirst, 

Too  weak  to  fly  —  too  brave  to  yield  — 
With  bitterness  of  death  accurst. 

The  horrors  of  the  prison  pen, 

Whence  few  who  entered  ever  came, 
Starvation  in  a  loathsome  den 

Where  life  was  death  and  hope  a  name ; 
All  these  and  more  these  heroes  dared 

That  freedom's  light  might  shine  afar, 
Each  breast  to  death  was  freely  bared 

Amid  the  wild  alarm  of  war. 

Again  across  Columbia's  plains 

The  war  trump  peals  its  thrilling  blast, 
Once  more  it  sings  in  stirring  strains 

The  glorious  triumphs  of  the  past ; 
The  answering  tread  of  mustering  hosts, 

The  land  aglow  with  bivouac  fires, 
Proclaim  that  still  our  Union  boasts 

Sons  brave  and  loyal  as  their  sires. 

These  graves  with  tears  of  love  bedew, 
And  deck  them  with  the  bloom  of  May 

In  honor  of  the  boys  in  blue, 
In  memory  of  the  boys  in  gray. 

279 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


No  more  opposed  in  deadly  strife, 

Brother  to  brother,  sire  to  son, 
They  proved  their  valor  life  for  life, 

Now  side  by  side  they  sleep,  —  as  one. 

Sleep  on,  brave  hearts,  and  take  your  rest, 

A  hundred  million  strong  and  free 
Shall  guard  in  each  heroic  breast 

Your  pure  and  priceless  legacy. 
'Twas  not  in  vain,  O  noble  band, 

Your  blood  imbued  Columbia's  sod, 
United  now  her  children  stand,  — 

One  flag,  one  country,  and  one  God. 

—  Geo.  D.  Emery. 


280 


STRIKE   THE   BLOW. 


gfrifte  f  0e 

HTHE  four-way  winds  of  the  world  have  blown, 

And  the  ships  have  ta'en  the  wave ; 
The  legions  march  to  the  trumps'  shrill  call 
'Neath  the  flag  of  the  free  and  brave. 
The  hounds  of  the  sea 
Have  trailed  the  foe, 

They  have  trailed  and  tracked  htm  down,  — 
Then  wait  no  longer,  but  strike,  O  land, 
With  the  dauntless  strength  of  thy  strong 

right  hand, 
Strike  the  blow ! 

The  armored  fleets,  with  their  grinning  guns, 

Have  the  Spaniard  in  his  lair; 
They  have  tracked  him  down  where  the  ramparts 

frown, 

And  they'll  halt  and  hold  him  there. 
They  have  steamed  in  his  wake, 

They  have  seen  him  go, 
They  have  bottled  and  corked  him  up ; 
Then  send  him  home  to  the  underfoam, 
Till  the  wide  sea  shakes  to  the  far  blue 

dome; 
Strike  the  blow ! 

281 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


The  Cuban  dead  and  the  dying  call, 

The  children  starved  in  the  light 
Of  the  aid  that  waits  till  the  hero  deed 
Breaks  broad  on  the  tyrant's  might. 
The  starved  and  the  weak 

In  their  hour  of  woe 
Are  calling,  land,  on  thee ; 

Then  why  delay  in  thy  dauntless  sway  ? 
On,  on,  to  the  charge  of  the  freedom-way, 
Strike  the  blow ! 

They  have  ta'en  the  winds  of  the  Carib  seas, 

Thy  fleets  that  know  not  fear ; 
Their  ribs  of  steel  have  yearned  to  reel 
In  the  dance  of  the  cannoneer. 
Thy  sons  of  the  blue 

That  wait  to  go 
Would  leap  with  a  will  to  the  charge, 

Then  send  them  the  word  so  long  deferred ; 
They  have  listened  late,  but  they  have  not 

heard ; 
Strike  the  blow ! 

They  have  listened  late  in  the  desolate  land, 
They  have  looked  through  brimming  eyes, 

And  starving  women  have  held  dead  babes 
To  their  heart  with  a  thousand  sighs. 

282 


STRIKE   THE   BLOW. 


On,  on  to  the  end, 

O  land,  the  foe 
Beneath  thy  sword  shall  fall, 

Thy  ships  of  steel  have  tracked  them  home, 

Ye  are  king  of  the  land  and  king  of  the  foam, 

Strike  the  blow ! 

—  F.McK. 


283 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


3E>oft>  ©of  Sorf,  for  <fle  <Bos  Coming. 

T_T  AUL  in  der  plank,  full  speed  ahead,  — 
Undt  so  dose  shteamers  sailed  avay, 
Undt  tears  undt  prayers  dose  ships  go  mit, 

Undt  aching  hearts  pehind  dem  shtay. 
Vhen  dose  ships  pass  der  Golden  Gate, 

Undt  dot  Pacific's  swell  dey  feel, 
Vat  strike  deir  pows,  vat  lap  deir  sides, 

Undt  quiver  dem  from  truck  to  keel, 

Say,  den  a  chill  vos  in  mein  plood, 

I  lifd  mein  eyes  oop  to  der  sky, 
Undt  from  each  ship  vat  sailed  avay, 

I  see  Old  Glory  masthead  high. 
"  Mein  Gott,"  I  cried,  "  I  vos  olt  mans, 

But  nefer  I  see  dot  pefore, 
Dot  Yankee  ships  mit  soltjer  poys 

Vos  sailing  for  a  foreign  shore." 

Mit  swords  undt  peestols,  undt  mit  guns,  — 
Mit  all  war's  horrid  tools  dey  go. 

To  haf  a  picnic  ?  —  No,  mein  Gott, 
To  pattle  mit  a  foreign  foe. 

284 


HOLD  DOT  FORT,  FOR  VE  VOS  COMING. 


I'd  gif  von  halluf  ov  mein  life, 

Ohf  by  Manila  I  could  shtand, 
Vhen  Dewey  hear  dose  vistles  scream, 

Undt  Merritt  shake  dot  hero's  hand. 

Some  kings  vat  lif  across  der  sea  — 

Undt  Emp'ror  Villiam  he  vos  one  — 
Dey  shpeak  mean  dings  der  Yankees  ov, 

Undt  Villiam  he  haf  blendy  fun. 
Veil,  Villiam,  all  your  poys  vat  lif 

In  Yankee  land,  dey  vos  true  blue, 
But  in  der  f aderland  —  oh,  veil  — 

When  Shpain  vos  licked  ve  shpeak  mit 
you. 

—  Hans  Von  Dunkerfoodle. 


285 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


The  Americans  are  a  cowardly  race.  —  Spanish  Newspaper. 

A1TE  are   not  a  warlike  nation  ;  here  of  old  our 

fathers  settled, 
Seeking  scope  for  their  opinions,  in  the  log  house 

and  the  hut  ; 
Seeking  elbow  room  and  freedom,  sober  men  and 

quiet  mettled, 

Almost  too  religious,  maybe,  peaceful-minded  peo- 
ple; but  — 

Since  they  wished  to  farm  the  meadows,  wished  to 

go  to  church  on  Sunday, 
And  the  redskin  would  annoy  them  with  his  lust 

for  human  hair, 
From  far  Georgia  to  the  south'ard,  to  the  misty  shore 

of  Fundy, 

Flintlocks  kept  the  plough  a-going,  bullets  helped 
to  speed  the  prayer. 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation  ;  though  the  blood  we 

brought  was  ruddy, 

We  preferred  its  cherry  runnels  in  the  veins  kept 
tightly  shut. 

286 


THE    SPANIARD   ANSWERED. 


We  had  thews  for  farm  and  fishnet ;  we  had  brains 

to  scheme  and  study ; 

Brawn  and  brain  for  peace  and  quiet,  —  that  was 
all  we  wanted  ;  but  — 

Ask  the  fields  of  sleepy  Concord,  ask  old  wrecked 

Ticonderoga, 
Of  the  cost  of  unjust  taxes  and  old  bottles  for  new 

wine! 
Something  more  than  glass  was  broken  on  the  heights 

of  Saratoga, 

And  the  tax  was  paid  at  Yorktown  by  the  stiff  old 
buff-blue  line. 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation ;  patterned,  rather,  for 

keen  trading ; 
Some  will  say  the  style  is  English,  that  from  them 

we  get  the  cut ; 
East  and  west  our  ships  went  speeding,  decks  awash 

from  heavy  lading, 

Bowsprits  poked  in  every  harbor,  never  seeking 
quarrels;  but  — 

When   our  rich    Levant  trade    came,   and    Tripoli 

claimed  tribute  from  it,  — 

Tribute   paid  by  other  navies  trading  down  the 
midland  sea,  — 

287 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


We,  the  least  and  last  of  nations,  blew  her  gunboats 

to  Mahomet, 

Blew  the  faithful  to  their  houris,  made  the  straits 
forever  free. 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation ;  we  had  states  to  form 

and  settle, 
We  had   stuffs  to  manufacture,  till  our  markets 

felt  the  glut ; 
We  were  busy  getting  headway,  busy  panning  out 

the  metal 

From  the  human  dust  that  reached  us  from  the 
old-world  digging ;  but  — 

We  could  slow  up  for  a  moment,  just  to  show  our 

elder  brother 
That  the  bird  we  put  our  faith  in  was  not  stuffed 

upon  his  perch ; 
And  we  told  him  through  the  cannon,  in  the  sea 

fights'  reek  and  smother, 

We  had   searched    the    Scripture   duly,   but   had 
found  no  "  right  to  search." 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation  ;  peace  sometimes  keeps 

men's  souls  sleeping; 

Some  of  us  still  sought  our  harvests  in  the  old 
barbaric  rut 

288 


THE    SPANIARD    ANSWERED. 


Worn  by  captive  feet,   till,   one  day,  party  feeling 

upward  leaping, 

Broke  into  a  flame  and  blazed  on  all  the  startled 
nations;  but  — 

When  the   smoke  from  red  fields  lifted,  when  the 

armies  were  disbanded,  — 
Better  armies,  all  the  world  knows,  never  cartridge 

bit  or  rammed,  — 
Proud  of  their  own  deeds,  and  proud,  too,  of  the  men 

who,  lighter  handed, 

Fought   them  long   and   ofttimes  whipped  them, 
slavery  was  dead  and  damned. 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation ;  we  love  life  far  more 

than  dying ; 
We  have  little  time  for  swagger  and  the  military 

strut ; 
Let  old  Europe  pay  big  armies ;  we  have  better  fish 

for  frying, 

We  have  nobler  tools  for  manhood  than  the  sword 
and  rifle ;  but  — 

Since  we  are  a  Christian  nation,  and  the  blood  our 

veins  are  filled  with  — 

Anglo-Saxon,  Celtic,  Teuton  —  will  not  keep  for- 
ever cool, 

289 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


When  we   see   weak  women  starving,  helpless,  ill- 
starred  children  killed  with 

Filthy  water,  air  empoisoned,  just  to  eke  out  Span- 
ish rule  ; 

Since  we  find  that  Cuba's  Cuban,  and  the  Spaniard 

but  a  tenant 
Who  defiles  the  house  he  lives  in,  then  our  duty 

stands  out  plain ; 
We  are  masters   in  these  waters,   at  the  mainmast 

flies  our  pennant, 

End  this  hell  on  earth,  or,  hark  ye,  eastward  lies 
the  path  to  Spain  ! 

—  Robert  Cameron  Rogers. 


290 


A   SONG   FOR   THE   FLEET. 


$  gong  fot  tye  $feet 

A   SONG  for  them  one  and  all, 
""     The  sister-ships  of  the  Maine, 
They  have  sailed  at  a  nation's  battle-call 
To  save  a  land  from  a  tyrant's  thrall 
That  has  struggled  long  in  vain! 

The  coming  days  shall  speak 

The  praise  of  our  valiant  tars ! 
No  fear  they  will  wanting  prove,  or  weak, 
When  proudly  flutters  from  every  peak 

The  glorious  stripes  and  stars ! 

Then  cheer  for  the  flag  unfurled 

On  the  dawn  of  that  Sabbath  day, 
When  the  shot  that  the  gallant  Dewey  hurled 
Crushed  the  hopes  of  the  Spanish  world, 
In  the  far  Manila  Bay  I 

And  a  cheer  for  the  valorous  ones 

Who  are  girt  for  the  gory  fight, 
Where  the  tropic  tide-race  swirls  and  runs 
Under  the  frown  of  the  Morro's  guns  — 

And  God  be  with  the  right ! 

—  Clinton  Scollard. 


291 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(~)H,  rise  up  in  your  glorious  might, 

America,  America ! 
Destroy  the  wrong,  defend  the  right, 

America,  America ! 
Oh,  see  the  pleading  hand  outheld, 
Behold  the  fetters  tyrants  weld  ; 
And  shall  thine  aid  be  still  withheld? 

America,  America ! 

Thy  sons  are  loyal,  brave,  and  true, 

America,  America ! 
They're  burning  now  to  dare  and  do, 

America,  America! 
No  brother  looks  to  thee  in  vain ; 
We'll  crush  the  power  of  cruel  Spain ; 
Remembered  be  the  martyred  Maine. 

America,  America ! 

Then  give  three  cheers  for  Dewey,  true, 

America,  America  ! 
And  for  the  grand  Red,  White,  and  Blue, 

America,  America ! 


292 


WAR   HYMN. 


Our  ships  are  victors  on  the  sea, 
And  Cuba  shall  be,  must  be  free ! 
All  honor  do  we  give  to  thee, 
America,  America ! 

—  Beulah  R.  Stevens. 


293 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


o' 


/^\H,  we  met  the  Spanish  squadron 

In  the  choppy  China  Sea; 
With  "  Old  Glory  "  up  above  us, 

And  our  Commodore  Dewey ; 
And  a  brace  of  Yankee  seamen 
(Every  fightin'  tar  a  freeman)  — 
And  the  way  we  trounced  the  haughty  Dons 

Was  beautiful  to  see. 

We  shelled  'em  out  to  seaward,  — 

And  we  shelled  'em  on  the  shore ; 
And  we  trained  our  guns  to  leeward 

For  a  hundred  shots  or  more ; 
For  the  rag  that  hung  above  us, 
And  the  Yankee  hearts  that  love  us  — 
Why,  we  made  the  eagle  hump  himself 
And  show  'em  how  to  soar. 

Oh,  the  decks  was  slippin'  bloody, 
And  the  guns  was  smokin'  hot ; 

And  the  centre  o'  the  scrimmage 
Was  an  interestin'  spot ; 

And  the  beggars  kept  salutin' 

In  a  disrespectful  shootin' 

294 


THE    SOARIN'   O'   THE    EAGLE. 


Till  we  sent  'em  Yankee  manners 
In  a  dozen  ton  of  shot. 

Our  ears  was  full  o'  cotton, 

And  our  legs  was  all  a-reel ; 
But  the  Yankee  grit  was  in  us, 

And  our  guns  was  full  o'  steel ; 
And  we  kept  the  Greasers  hoppin' 
With  the  shells  that  we  was  droppin' 
Till  we  filled  'em  full  o'  blazin'  hell 
From  reekin'  deck  to  keel. 

Oh,  we  bored  'em  full  o'  trouble 

As  a  sieve  is  full  o'  holes ; 
And  we  chucked  'em  under  water 

Like  a  nest  o'  drownded  moles. 
With  the  blessin'  o'  Saint  Mary 
And  the  Yankee  military  — 
Why,  we  give  'em  twenty  volleys 

For  the  restin'  o'  their  souls. 

They  fought  us  square  and  honest, 
And  they  spoiled  our  purty  shine ; 

And  they  went  down  game  as  chickens 
When  we  sunk  'em  in  the  brine  ; 

For  while  the  eagle's  screamin', 

And  the  stars  and  stripe's  a-streamin', 

295 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Why,  we  hain't  the  boys  to  say  it,  — 
That  they  didn't  toe  the  line. 

Oh,  they  thought  they'd  have  a  bull-fight 
With  your  Uncle  Sammy's  crew  ; 

And  they  figgered  out  that  dodgin' 
Was  the  proper  thing  to  do. 

But  they  missed  their  calculation 

In  a-sizin'  up  the  nation,  — 

Cause  there  hain't  no  room  fer  Spaniards 
When  the  eagle  soars  the  blue. 

—  Marion  Franklin  Ham. 


296 


THE    CALL   TO   THE   COLORS. 


Caff  to  t$e  £ofors. 


"    A  RE  you  ready,  O  Virginia, 

Alabama,  Tennessee  ? 
People  of  the  Southland,  answer  ! 

For  the  land  hath  need  of  thee." 
"  Here  !  "  from  sandy  Rio  Grande, 

Where  the  Texan  horsemen  ride; 
"  Here  !  "  the  hunters  of  Kentucky 

Hail  from  Chatterawha's  side  ; 
Every  toiler  in  the  cotton, 

Every  rugged  mountaineer, 
Velvet-voiced  and  iron-handed, 

Lifts  his  head  to  answer,  "  Here  ! 
Some  remain  who  charged  with  Pickett, 

Some  survive  who  followed  Lee  ; 
They  shall  lead  their  sons  to  battle 

For  the  flag,  if  need  there  be." 

"  Are  you  ready,  California, 

Arizona,  Idaho  ? 
«  Come,  oh,  come,  unto  the  colors  !  ' 

Heard  you  not  the  bugle  blow  ?  " 
Falls  a  hush  in  San  Francisco 

In  the  busy  hives  of  trade  ; 


297 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


In  the  vineyards  of  Sonoma 

Fall  the  pruning  knife  and  spade  ; 
In  the  mines  of  Colorado 

Pick  and  drill  are  thrown  aside ; 
Idly  in  Seattle  harbor 

Swing  the  merchants  to  the  tide ; 
And  a  million  mighty  voices 

Throb  responsive  like  a  drum, 
Rolling  from  the  rough  Sierras, 

"  You  have  called  us,  and  we  come." 


O'er  Missouri  sounds  the  challenge  — 

O'er  the  great  lakes  and  the  plain ; 
"  Are  you  ready,  Minnesota  ? 

Are  you  ready,  men  of  Maine  ?  " 
From  the  woods  of  Ontonagon, 

From  the  farms  of  Illinois, 
From  the  looms  of  Massachusetts, 

"  We  are  ready,  man  and  boy." 
Axemen  free,  of  Androscoggin, 

Clerks  who  trudge  the  cities'  paves, 
Gloucester  men  who  drag  their  plunder 

From  the  sullen,  hungry  waves, 
Big-boned  Swede  and  large-limbed 
German, 

Celt  and  Saxon  swell  the  call, 

298 


THE   CALL   TO   THE   COLORS. 

And  the  Adirondacks  echo : 
"  We  are  ready,  one  and  all." 

Truce  to  feud  and  peace  to  faction ! 

All  forgot  is  party  zeal 
When  the  war-ships  clear  for  action, 

When  the  blue  battalions  wheel. 
Europe  boasts  her  standing  armies,  — 

Serfs  who  blindly  fight  by  trade ; 
We  have  seven  million  soldiers, 

And  a  soul  guides  every  blade. 
Laborers  with  arm  and  mattock, 

Laborers  with  brain  and  pen, 
Railroad  prince  and  railroad  brakeman 

Build  our  line  of  fighting  men. 
Flag  of  righteous  wars  !  close  mustered 

Gleam  the  bayonets,  row  on  row, 
Where  thy  stars  are  sternly  clustered, 

With  their  daggers  towards  the  foe. 

—  Arthur  Guiterman. 


299 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


T^ROM  Cuban  shores  in  ceaseless  pain, 

Out  of  the  calling  sea, 
Long  cried  the  Spirit  of  the  Maine , 
"  Will  ye  remember  me  ? " 

At  last  the  laggard  answer  comes 

From  'neath  the  Eastern  suns, 
Borne  westward  on  the  thundering  roll, 

The  deep  song  of  the  guns. 

From  where  the  war  winds  shrieked  and 
sang, 

The  battle  bugles  blew, 
And  deathless  names  in  history  sprang, 

Proud  as  man  ever  knew. 

Comes  the  wild,  wailing  voice  of  Spain,  — 

While  o'er  her  war-ships  stir 
Such  waves  as  wash  the  martyred  Maine,  — 

"  Ye  have  remembered  her !  " 

— James  Lindsay  Gordon. 


300 


A    SONG   FOR   THE   HOUR. 


fot  f0e  gout. 

T    ET  Tyranny  tremble  and  Cowardice  quake, 
The  people  have  spoken,  —  their  flag  is  un- 
furled, 

And  now  for  our  God  and  humanity's  sake, 
Let  Mars'  mighty  thunders  awaken  the  world. 

The  sobs  of  the  suffering  appeal  not  in  vain ; 

Columbia  has  lifted  her  radiant  shield, 
And  it's  woe  to  despotic  and  blood-shedding  Spain, 

When  Freedom's  brave  knighthood  has  taken  the 
field. 

The  wrath  of  the  Nation  is  kindled  at  last, 
And  Liberty's  light  shall  illumine  the  sky, 

The  Faith  of  our  fathers,  that  hallows  our  past, 
Proclaims  from  their  dust  that  the   despot   must 
die. 

No  longer  we  parley  with  tyrants  for  truce ; 

Let  the  war-drum  make  music  to  clashing  of 

steel,  — 
The    eagle   has  screamed   and   the  war-dogs    are 

loose,  — 
And  it's  woe  to  Havana  and  woe  to  Castile. 

—  William  F.  Dunbar. 

301 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


/T*O  the  men  who  fought  with  Decatur, 

To  the  men  who  with  Lawrence  died, 
To  the  men  who  fell  in  that  blazing  hell 

Of  Mobile  by  Farragut's  side ; 
Take  to  them  our  message  stern  and  plain, 
Tell  them  the  guns  are  cast  loose  again, 
Men  of  the  Maine  ! 

This  to  the  men  of  the  ships  of  oak 

From  the  men  of  the  ships  of  steel, 
To  the  hearts  that  broke  'mid  the  flame  and 

smoke 

From  the  living  hearts  that  feel, 
There  is  no  mizzen,  nor  fore,  nor  main, 
But  all  of  the  flags  are  aloft  again, 
Men  of  the  Maine  ! 

Not  against  foes  of  our  own  true  blood, 

Nor  kin  across  the  sea, 
But  straight  in  the  face  of  a  stranger  race 

Who  never,  like  you,  were  free. 
Tell  them  'tis  thus  that  our  guns  we  train, 
And  the  sights  are  lined,  and  the  strings  astrain, 
Men  of  the  Maine  ! 


302 


A   MESSAGE. 


Take  them  these  tidings,  ye  who  sleep 

'Neath  the  murky  waves  by  the  Cuban  town, 
The  blow  in  the  night  but  began  the  fight 
Which  ends  when  the  Spanish  flag  comes 

down, 

And  our  guns  shall  thunder  their  old  refrain 
Tolling  your  knell  from  here  —  to  Spain ! 
Men  of  the  Maine  / 

—P.B. 


303 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


3n  f(Je  $ime  of  JJfrife. 

VXTE  may  not  know 

How  red  the  lilies  of  the  spring  shall  grow; 
What  silver  flood, 
Sea-streaming,  take  the  crimson  tints  of  blood. 

We  may  not  know 
If  victory  shall  make  the  bugles  blow ; 

If  still  shall  wave 
The  flag  above  our  freedom  or  our  grave. 

We  only  know 
One  heart,  one  hand,  one  country,  meet  the  foe ; 

On  land  and  sea 
Her  liegemen  in  the  battle  of  the  free. 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


3°4 


THE   MARTYRS    OF   THE    MAINE. 


of  f0e  (JJUine. 


A  ND  they  have  thrust  our  shattered  dead  away  in 

foreign  graves, 
Exiled  forever  from  the  port  the  homesick  sailor 

craves  ! 

They  trusted  once  in  Spain, 
They're  trusting  her  again  ! 

And  with  the  holy  care  of  our  own  sacred  slain  ! 
No,  no,  the  Stripes  and  Stars 
Must  wave  above  our  tars. 

Bring  them  home  ! 


On  a  thousand  hills  the  darling  dead  of  all  our  battles 

lie 
In  nooks  of  peace,  with  flowers  and  flags,  but  now 

they  seem  to  cry 
From  out  their  bivouac : 
"  Here  every  good  man  Jack 
Belongs.     Nowhere  but  here  —  with  us. 
So  bring  them  back." 
And  on  the  Cuban  gales 
A  ghostly  rumor  wails, 

"  Bring  us  home ! " 

305 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Poltroon,  the  people  that  neglects  to  guard  the  bones, 

the  dust, 
The  reverenced  relics  its  warriors  have  bequeathed  in 

trust ! 

But  heroes,  too,  were  these 
Who  sentinel'd  the  seas 
And  gave  their  lives  to  shelter  us  in  careless 

ease. 

Shall  we  desert  them,  slain, 
And  proffer  them  to  Spain 

As   alien   mendicants,  —  these  martyrs  of   our 
Maine  ? 

No !     Bring  them  home  ! 

—  Rupert  Hughes. 


306 


DIES   IRAE. 


©teg  3rae. 

AIT" HERE  is  the  heritage  that  once  was  Spain's  — 
Half   the   proud   world   with    endless   riches 

piled? 

Ah,  all  hath  vanished ;  nothing  now  remains 
Save  one  sad  island,  —  one  unhappy  child, — 

Cuba,  last  daughter  of  the  Western  seas, 
Gaunt  victim  of  the  she-wolf's  ruthless  spoil, 

Whose  piteous  moans  rise  on  each  passing  breeze, 
While  drop  by  drop  her  life-blood  damps  the  soil. 

Four  hundred  years  !    God's  vengeance  tarrieth  late ; 

And  yet,  at  last !  the  day  of  wrath  hath  come ; 
Columbia,  bare  thy  steel !     The  nations  wait 

To  see  thee  drive  the  keen-edged  weapon  home ! 


307 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


(gefief 

Discussed  by  "  One  of  the  Yanks." 

O  HALL  we  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunting, 

In  token,  from  Blue  to  the  Gray, 
That  "  Brothers-in-blood  "  and  "  Good  Hunting  " 

Shall  be  our  new  watchword  to-day  ? 
In  olden  times  knights  held  it  knightly 

To  return  to  brave  foemen  the  sword  ; 
Will  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes  gleam  less 

brightly 
If  the  old  Rebel  flags  are  restored? 

Call  it  sentiment,  call  it  misguided 

To  fight  to  the  death  for  «  a  rag  ;  " 
Yet,  trailed  in  the  dust,  derided, 

The  true  soldier  still  loves  his  flag  ! 
Does  love  die,  and  must  honor  perish 

When  colors  and  causes  are  lost  ? 
Lives  the  soldier  who  ceases  to  cherish 

The  blood-stains  and  valor  they  cost  ? 

Our  battle-fields,  safe  in  the  keeping 
Of  Nature's  kind,  fostering  care, 

308 


THOSE    REBEL   FLAGS. 


Are  blooming,  —  our  heroes  are  sleeping, — 
And  peace  broods  perennial  there. 

All  over  our  land  rings  the  story 
Of  loyalty,  fervent  and  true  ; 

"  One  flag,"  and  that  flag  is  "  Old  Glory," 
Alike  for  the  Gray  and  the  Blue. 

Why  cling  to  those  moth-eaten  banners  ? 

What  glory  or  honor  to  gain 
While  the  nation  is  shouting  hosannas, 

Uniting  her  sons  to  fight  Spain  ? 
Time  is  ripe,  and  the  harvest  worth  reaping, 

Send  the  Johnnies  their  flags  f.  o.  b., 
Address  to  the  care  and  safe-keeping 

Of  that  loyal  "  old  Reb,"  Fitzhugh  Lee  ! 

Yes,  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunting, 

With  greetings  from  Blue  to  the  Gray ; 
We  are  "  Brothers-in-blood,"  and  "  Good 

Hunting  " 
Is  America's  watchword  to-day. 

—John  H.  Jewett. 


3°9 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


W 


(Britannia  to  £ofum6ia. 

"HAT  is  the  voice  I  hear 

On  the  wind  of  the  Western  sea  ? 
Sentinel,  listen  from  out  Cape  Clear, 

And  say  what  the  voice  may  be. 
"  'Tis  a  proud,  free  people  calling  loud  to  a  people 
proud  and  free. 

"  And  it  says  to  them,  «  Kinsmen,  hail ! 

We  severed  have  been  too  long ; 
Now  let  us  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 
And  our  friendship  last  long  as  love  doth  last,  and 

be  stronger  than  death  is  strong.'  " 

Answer  them,  sons  of  the  selfsame  race, 

And  blood  of  the  selfsame  clan, 
Let  us  speak  with  each  other,  face  to  face, 

And  answer  as  man  to  man, 
And  loyally  love  and  trust  each  other  as  none  but 

free  men  can. 

Now  fling  them  out  to  the  breeze, 
Shamrock,  thistle,  and 

310 


BRITANNIA   TO    COLUMBIA. 


And  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  unfurl  with  these, 

A  message  to  friends  and  foes, 

Wherever  the  sails  of  peace  are  seen,  and  wherever 
the  war  wind  blows. 

A  message  to  bond  and  thrall  to  wake, 

For  wherever  we  come,  we  twain, 
The  throne  of  the  tyrant  shall  rock  and  quake 

And  his  menace  be  void  and  vain, 
For  you  are  lords  of  a  strong  young  land  and  we  are 
lords  of  the  main. 

Yes,  this  is  the  voice  on  the  bluff  March  gale, 

"  We  severed  have  been  too  long; 
But  now  we  have  done  with  a  worn-out  tale, 

The  tale  of  an  ancient  wrong, 

And  our  friendship  shall  last  long  as  love  doth  last, 
and  be  stronger  than  death  is  strong." 

—  Alfred  Austin. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


—  1898. 


npHEY  are  camped  on  Chickamauga! 
Once  again  the  white  tents  gleam 
On  that  field  where  vanished  heroes 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  no  dream. 
There  are  shadows  all  about  them 

Of  the  ghostly  troops  to-day, 
But  they  light  the  common  camp-fire,  — 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray. 

Where  the  pines  of  Georgia  tower, 

Where  the  mountains  kiss  the  sky, 
On  their  arms  the  Nation's  warriors 

Wait  to  hear  the  battle-cry. 
Wait  together,  friends  and  brothers, 

And  the  heroes  'neath  their  feet 
Sleep  the  long  and  dreamless  slumber 

Where  the  flowers  are  blooming  sweet. 

Sentries  pause,  yon  shadow  challenge  ! 

Rock-ribbed  Thomas  goes  that  way,  — 
He  who  fought  the  foe  unyielding 

In  that  awful  battle  fray. 
Yonder  pass  the  shades  of  heroes, 

And  they  follow  where  Bragg  leads 

312 


CHICKAMAUGA  —  1898. 

Through  the  meadows  and  the  river,  — 
But  no  ghost  the  sentry  heeds. 

Field  of  fame,  a  patriot  army 

Treads  thy  sacred  sod  to-day  ! 
And  they'll  face  a  common  foeman, 

Those  who  wore  the  blue  and  gray, 
And  they'll  fight  for  common  country, 

And  they'll  charge  to  victory 
'Neath  the  folds  of  one  brave  banner,  — 

Starry  banner  of  the  free  ! 

They  are  camped  off  Chickamauga, 

Where  the  green  tents  of  the  dead 
Turn  the  soil  into  a  glory 

Where  a  Nation's  heart  once  bled ; 
But  they're  clasping  hands  together 

On  this  storied  field  of  strife,  — 
Brothers  brave  who  meet  to  battle 

In  the  freedom- war  of  life  ! 

— Baltimore  News. 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


1863. 

shuddering  trees  the  painted  leaves 
Strew  redder  dyes  of  crimson  sod ; 
And  brave  men  lie  in  ghastly  sheaves, 

As  whirled  there  by  the  wrath  of  God. 
Gray  vapors  hum  with  wings  of  death, 

Whose  roll-call  speeds  its  fierce  alarms ; 
And  life  sighs,  "'  Here  !  "  with  parting  breath, 

Where  bleeding  thousands  ground  their  arms. 
For  brothers  face  each  other's  steel, 
Grim  suitors  in  the  last  appeal. 


From  laughing  leas  the  bugles  sing, 

More  shrill  than  bird  to  nesting  mate 
O'er  tented  slopes  the  war  notes  ring, 

And  time  again  the  tramp  of  fate. 
Bright  oriflamme  of  liberty, 

Our  bannered  blazon  flaunts  the  sky, 
And  hails  the  "sun-burst"  in  the  sea, 

A  gallant  people's  anguished  cry. 
Now,  brothers,  touch  in  common  weal 
To  right  that  foreign  wrong  with  steel. 

—  G.  T.  Ferris. 


ONE   BENEATH    OLD   GLORY. 


"pvON'T  you  hear  the  tramp  of  soldiers? 

Don't  you  hear  the  bugles  play? 
Don't  you  see  the  muskets  flashing 

In  the  sunlight  far  away  ? 
Don't  you  feel  the  ground  all  trembling 

'Neath  the  tread  of  many  feet  ? 
They  are  coming,  tens  of  thousands, 

To  the  army  and  the  fleet. 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more  ; 
They  are  one,  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  are  gath'ring  'round  Old  Glory, 

And  they're  marching  to  the  war. 

Don't  you  see  the  harbors  guarded 
By  those  bristling  dogs  of  war  ? 

Don't  you  hear  them  growling,  barking, 
At  the  fleet  beyond  the  bar  ? 

Don't  you  hear  the  Jack  Tars  cheering, 
Brave  as  sailor  lads  can  be  ? 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Don't  you  see  the  water  boiling 
Where  the  squadron  put  to  sea  ? 

They  are  Yankees,  they  are  Johnnies, 

They're  for  North  and  South  no  more ; 
They  are  one,  and  glad  to  follow 

When  Old  Glory  goes  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They  have  gathered  'round  Old  Glory, 

And  they're  sailing  to  the  war. 

Don't  you  hear  the  horses  prancing  ? 

Don't  you  hear  the  sabres  clash  ? 
Don't  you  hear  the  cannons  roaring  ? 

Don't  you  hear  the  muskets  crash  ? 
Don't  you  smell  the  smoke  of  battle  ? 

Oh,  you'll  wish  that  you  had  gone, 
When  you  hear  the  shouts  and  cheering 

For  the  boys  who  whipped  the  Don ! 

There'll  be  Yankees,  there'll  be  Johnnies, 

There'll  be  North  and  South  no  more, 
When  the  boys  come  marching  homeward 

With  Old  Glory  borne  before. 
From  Atlantic  to  Pacific, 

From  the  Pine  Tree  to  Lone  Star, 
They'll  be  one  beneath  Old  Glory 

After  coming  from  the  war. 

316 


THE    MAINE. 


(gftaine. 

"DRAVE  hearts  still'd  on  the  Maine,  a  last 
good  night ! 

Good  night  to  gallant  fellowship  and  stanch 
Lives,  not  less  honor'd  if  not  lost  in  fight ! 

Tho'  upon  unknown  waters  ye  must  launch 
Your  boats  with  our  rich  cargo  of  regret, 

None  who  our  country  love  can  bid  good-by 
To  your  remembrance,  nor  can  e'er  forget 

What  sacrifice  ye  made  for  her.     We  die 
In  age  'mid  aliens,  but  in  youth  'mid  friends 

Whose  impulses  are  ours,  to  whom  alike 
The  bright  meridian  of  manhood  lends 

Its  glory.     Tho'  your  knell  untimely  strike, 
No  silent  silting  of  the  hurried  years 
May  hide  your  worth,  nor  choke  the  source  of 
tears !  —  Griswald  Dichter. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


for  flje  |iaifor*men. 


"VT  OW  it's  hail  to  the  commander, 
And  it's  hail  the  valiant  fleet  ! 
And  it's  hail  the  guns  that  thundered 

Through  the  battle's  lurid  heat  ! 
But  we'll  not  forget  the  sailors, 

So  it's  sailor-men,  hurrah  ! 
It's  your  country's  hand  we  give  you, 

For  to  shake  your  grimy  paw. 

The  sailor-men,  the  sailor-men, 

The  men  who  fought  below, 
The  gunners  and  the  striplings 

And  the  navvies  we  don't  know  — 
But  it's  hail  to  them,  and  Honor 

Wreath  her  roses  'round  their  fame  ; 
For  'twas  them  that  did  their  duty 

When  the  cannon  spoke  their  flame  ! 

Oh,  cheer  the  mighty  commodore,  — 

The  credit  is  his  due,  — 
And  cheer  the  under  officers, 

The  gunners  and  the  crew  ! 
But  don't  forget  the  sailor-men, 

Who  fought  the  fight  below, 


A    SONG    FOR   THE    SAILOR -MEN. 


Where  the  devil  lit  his  furnace, 
And  they  hadn't  any  show. 

The  sailor-men,  the  sailor-men, 

A  flag  we'll  fly  for  them, 
And  the  girls  will  wreath  the  roses 

In  a  gaudy  diadem, 
For  to  crown  the  seaman's  valor, 

And  to  honor  them  that  sweat 
Where  the  devil  lights  his  furnace 

And  the  bloody  decks  are  wet. 

Now  it's  hail  unto  the  commodore, 

The  captains,  and  all  that ! 
But  we  sha'n't  forget  the  underlings, 

Or  be  they  Mike  or  Pat ; 
For  they  fought  the  fight  with  valor  - 

Here's  your  country's  hand  to  you, 
Every  hearty  lad  that's  numbered 

In  the  squadron's  noble  crew. 

The  sailor-men,  the  sailor-men, 

The  lowest  and  the  high, 
With  a  heart  for  any  duty,  — 

Though  that  duty  be  to  die,  — 
Here's  a  cheer  across  the  valleys, 

And  an  echo  o'er  the  hills ; 

319 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


For  the  land  from  hill  to  valley 

With  your  splendid  triumph  thrills! 

Yea,  hail  the  grimy  sailor-man,  — 

And  sure  he's  got  a  breast 
That  is  filled  with  love  of  country,  — 

And  it's  hail  him  with  the  rest, 
For  the  fires  he  kept  a-burning, 

And  the  guns  he  kept  awake, 
And  the  sweet  life  that  he  offered 

For  his  darlin'  country's  sake ! 

Oh,  the  sailor-man,  the  sailor-man ! 

When  all  is  said  and  done, 
At  Manila  or  wherever 

Valor's  bloody  race  is  run, 
He's  deservin'  of  affection  ; 

For,  behold,  the  commodore 
Without  the  grimy  sailor-man 

Can't  make  the  cannon  roar  ! 

—  Baltimore  News. 


320 


IN   DAYS   LIKE   THESE. 


3n 


f\  GOD  of  hosts,  whose  mighty  hand 
^^^     Our  fathers  led  across  the  seas, 
We  took  from  thee  our  goodly  land, 

To  thee  we  look  in  days  like  these. 
'Mid  swelling  tumult,  bitter  word, 

'Mid  clashing  arms  and  bugles'  blare, 
While  war-drums  fret  the  fevered  air, 
In  days  like  these,  be  near,  O  Lord. 

The  winds  have  swept  our  colors  out, 
Our  polished  guns  the  sun  has  kissed; 

With  measured  step  and  loyal  shout, 

The  men  trooped  by  who  now  are  missed. 

The  hilltops  signal  far  away, 

And  sea  calls  sea  with  beacon  lips, 
Where  ride  our  far-flung  battle  ships, 

To  strike  the  foe  at  break  of  day. 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  that  we  forgot 
To  humble  self  and  thee  to  please  ; 

Our  vows  unkept,  sins  thought,  unthought, 
Forgive,  O  Lord,  in  days  like  these. 

Our  gift  upon  the  altar  lies, 

321 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Accept  it  ere  thou  call  us  hence, 
Although  thou  saidst  obedience 
Is  better  than  a  sacrifice. 

'Tis  not  for  gain  or  vengeful  spite 

Our  treasure  and  our  life  is  poured, 
But  for  the  wronged  who  have  no  might, 

Whose  cry  has  reached  the  ear  of  God. 
In  days  like  these  our  motives  take, 

Since  whom  thou  usest  thou  must  trust ; 

And  when  we  strike  because  we  must, 
Help  us  to  heal  the  wounds  we  make. 

—  Thomas  H.  Stacy. 


322 


NEMESIS. 


THE    MAINE. 

C  HE  glided  on  her  peaceful  quest, 

What  though  her  starry  flag  might  bear 
To  some  a  silent,  stern  behest, 

To  some  a  breath  of  freedom's  air; 
Then  in  her  berth,  a  stately  guest, 

Slept,  trustful,  in  that  alien  lair. 


But  what  are  bulkheads,  fashioned  well, 
And  what  are  sides  and  decks  of  steel, 

Or  cunning  dial-hands,  to  tell, 

Through  night  and  day,  of  woe  or  weal, 

When  human  hearts  can  league  with  hell 
And  sow  volcanoes  'neath  a  keel  ? 


So,  by  a  deed  whose  blackness  made 
The  night  it  chose  seem  white  beside, 

Struck  in  the  dark  by  coward's  blade, 

The  knightly  Maine  leapt  once  and  died, — 

A  name  to  make  a  throne  afraid,  — 

A  wreck  that  moaned  beneath  the  tide ! 


323 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


THE    OREGON. 

But  o'er  the  land  the  tidings  swept, 

And  death-cries  quivered  through  the  wire ; 

Down  in  the  hole  the  engines  leapt, 
The  coal  sprang  eager  to  the  fire, 

And  never  slacked  and  never  slept 
The  sister  war-ship's  grim  desire  ! 

With  patient  throbs  that  never  wane 

A  continent's  long  coast  is  won ; 
That  nearing  death-smoke  on  the  main 

Shall  teach  the  lesson  to  the  Don 
That  he  who  strikes  a  blow  at  Maine 

Shall  reckon  yet  with  Oregon  ! 

Ah,  when  her  helm  goes  hard  aport, 
And  all  her  broadside  speaks  in  fire, 

And  from  the  proudly  floating  fort 

The  cheers  ring  out  with  brave  desire, 

That  sound  shall  shake  a  trembling  court, 
And  thrill  Havana's  sunken  pyre  ! 

—  C.  H.  Crandall. 


324 


THE    WAR -SHIP   "DIXIE." 


i    "®txie." 


'T^HEY'VE  named  a  cruiser  «  Dixie,"  —  that's  whut 

the  papers  say,  — 
An'  I  hears  they're  goin'  to  man  her  with  the  boys 

that  wore  the  gray  ; 
Good  news  !    It  sorter  thrills  me,  an'  makes  me  want 

ter  be 
Whar  the  ban'   is  playin'    "  Dixie,"   an'  the  Dixie 

puts  ter  sea  ! 

They've  named  a  cruiser  "Dixie."     An',  fellers,  I'll 

be  boun' 
You're   goin'  ter  see  some  fightin'  when  the  Dixie 

swings  aroun'  ! 
Ef  any  o'  them  Spanish  ships  shall  strike  her,  east 

or  west, 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys'll  do  the 

rest! 

I  want  to  see  that  Dixie,  —  I  want  ter  take  my  stan' 
On  the  deck  of  her  and  holler  :  "  Three  cheers  fer 

Dixie  Ian'  !  " 
She  means  we're  all  united,  —  the  war  hurts  healed 

away, 
An'  "  Way  Down  South  in  Dixie  "  is  national  to-day  ! 

325 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

I  bet  you  she's  a  good  'un !  I'll  stake  my  last  red 
cent 

Thar  ain't  no  better  timber  in  the  whole  blame  settle- 
ment ! 

An'  all  their  shiny  battle-ships  beside  that  ship  air 
tame, 

Fer,  when  it  comes  to  "  Dixie,"  thar's  somethin'  in 
a  name ! 

Here's  three  cheers  an'  a  tiger,  —  as  hearty  as  kin  be  ; 
An'  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie  "  when  the  Dixie  puts 

ter  sea! 
She'll  make  her  way  an'  win  the  day  from  shinin'  East 

to  West  — 
Jest  let  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'  the  boys'll  do  the 

rest. 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


326 


THE   EAGLE'S    SONG. 


*T*HE  lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub 
Was  seized  by  an  eagle,  and  carried  up, 
And  homed  for  awhile  in  an  eagle's  nest, 
And  slept  for  awhile  on  an  eagle's  breast ; 
And  the  eagle  taught  it  the  eagle's  song : 
"  To  be  stanch,  and  valiant,  and  free,  and 
strong ! " 

The  lion  whelp  sprang  from  the  eyrie  nest, 
From  the  lofty  crag  where  the  queen  birds  rest ; 
He  fought  the  King  on  the  spreading  plain, 
And  drove  him  back  o'er  the  foaming  main. 
He  held  the  land  as  a  thrifty  chief, 
And  reared  his  cattle,  and  reaped  his  sheaf, 
Nor  sought  the  help  of  a  foreign  hand, 
Yet  welcomed  all  to  his  own  free  land ! 

Two  were  the  sons  that  the  country  bore 
To  the  Northern  lakes  and  the  Southern  shore; 
And  Chivalry  dwelt  with  the  Southern  son, 
And  Industry  lived  with  the  Northern  one. 
Tears  for  the  time  when  they  broke  and  fought ! 
Tears  was  the  price  of  the  union  wrought ! 
And  the  land  was  red  in  a  sea  of  blood, 
Where  brother  for  brother  had  swelled  the  flood  ! 


327 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  now  that  the  two  are  one  again, 
Behold  on  their  shield  the  word  "  Refrain !  " 
And  the  lion  cubs  twain  sing  the  eagle's  song : 
"  To  be  stanch,   and  valiant,  and  free,  and 

strong ! " 

For  the  eagle's  beak,  and  the  lion's  paw, 
And  the  lion's  fangs,  and  the  eagle's  claw, 
And  the  eagle's  swoop,  and  the  lion's  might, 
And  the  lion's  leap,  and  the  eagle's  sight, 
Shall  guard  the  flag  with  the  word  "  Refrain  !  " 
Now  that  the  two  are  one  again ! 

—  Richard  Mansfield. 


328 


THE    DREAM    OF   THE    SPANISH   ADMIRAL. 


©team  of  f0e 


A.  D.  1541- 

T  N  slumber  as  the  morning  broke 

(It  was  our  homeward  voyage  to  Spain) 
Methought  I  gave  a  parting  look 

At  the  New  World  beyond  the  main. 
The  shores  were  low,  and  soft  and  faint, 

Half  purple  mist  and  half  firm  land, 
On  which  the  sunbeams  seemed  to  paint 

The  semblance  of  a  foamy  strand. 

I  dreamed  I  saw  a  hundred  ships 

Where  not  a  sail  had  glanced  before, 
And  for  chained  hands  and  livid  lips 

I  heard  a  new-born  people  roar. 
To  every  mast  a  flag  was  nailed, 

No  lion  crest,  but  stripes  and  stars, 
And  deep  into  the  sea  they  sailed 

To  wrestle  with  us,  old  in  wars. 

They  clove  our  ranks,  they  clomb  the  towers 
Our  loftiest  galleons  proudly  bore  : 

They  struck  with  more  than  mortal  powers, 
Till  Spain  herself  could  strike  no  more. 

329 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  down  the  wind  we  drifted  far, 

And  to  the  shore  our  hulks  were  blown ; 

The  sea  was  thick  with  mast  and  spar, 
And  Spain  was  shaken  from  her  throne. 

And  louder  than  the  whirring  brine, 

And  louder  than  the  cannon's  roar, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "  Vengeance  is  mine, 

I  recompense  for  evermore  !  " 
Now  may  St.  James  defend  us  still, 

And  may  the  cavaliers  of  Spain 
Sail  on  and  conquer  whom  they  will, 

And  teach  me  that  my  dream  was  vain. 

—  Samuel  Dorman. 


33° 


JUST   ONE    SIGNAL. 


jjusf 


/~pHE  war-path  is  true  and  straight, 

It  knoweth  no  left  nor  right  ; 
Why  ponder  and  wonder  and  vacillate  ? 
The  way  to  fight  is  to  fight. 

The  officer  of  the  deck 

Had  climbed  to  a  perch  aloft, 
And  he  leaned  far  out  and  he  craned  his  neck, 

And  his  tones  were  gentle  and  soft  : 
"  I  see,"  he  whispered,  "  off  there  to  port, 

Through  the  night  shade's  lesser  black, 
The  darker  blur  of  the  outer  fort, 

Preparing  for  the  attack." 
They  signalled  it  so,  and  sharp  and  short 

The  answer  was  signalled  back  : 
"  Keep  on." 

Again  from  the  upper  air 

Came  the  quiet  voice  of  the  guide  : 
"  The  admiral's  flagship's  over  there, 

Two  miles  on  the  starboard  side. 
It's  a  long,  long  way  for  the  best  of  eyes, 

But  I  know  her  by  moon  and  sun, 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


I  know  by  her  lines  and  I  know  her  size  — 
And  there  goes  her  warning  gun." 

"  That  boat  will  make  a  most  excellent  prize," 
Said  the  admiral,  "  when  we've  won. 
Keep  on." 


The  whispering  came  again: 

"  I  think  by  the  hints  and  signs 
Appearing  ahead  of  us  now  and  then 

That  we're  getting  among  their  mines. 
Ten  fathom  in  front,  as  the  searchlights  show, 

I  fancy  that  I  can  detect 
The  line  of  their  outermost  works  —  Ah,  no  ! 

It  is  nearer  than  I'd  suspect." 
The  message  was  sent  to  the  admiral  so, 

And  he  answered  to  this  effect : 
«  Keep  on." 


The  haze  of  the  dawning  day 

Slid  into  the  shades  of  night, 
And  he  called :  "  Off  there  in  the  upper  bay, 

They're  lining  their  ships  for  a  fight. 
I  think  they  are  training  on  us  —  "    No  more 

He  said,  for  the  dawn  was  lit 
By  the  blaze  of  a  gun  from  the  neighboring  shore, 

332 


JUST    ONE    SIGNAL. 


And  he  fell  to  the  deck,  hard  hit. 
They  signalled :  "  The  first  man  struck."  As  before 
The  admiral  answered  it : 
"  Keep  on." 


The  sun  came  over  the  hills 

As  wishing  a  world-wide  weal. 
And  the  guns  were  fired  with  the  aim  that  kills, 

And  steel  pierced  the  heart  of  steel. 
And  the  line  of  shore  was  the  fringe  of  hell, 

And  the  centre  of  hell  was  the  sea, 
And  the  woe  was  the  woe  no  tongue  may  tell, 

And  no  eye  view  tearlessly, 
And  over  that  crater  of  bomb  and  shell 

The  signal  continued  to  be : 
"  Keep  on." 


O  Lawrence,  whose  passing  cry 

Grows  ever  the  more  sublime, 
And  thou,  O  Nile  king,  whose  words  shall  die 

When  we  learn  of  the  death  of  time, 
We  send  you  the  third  of  a  glorious  three ; 

We  send  you  a  battle  shout 
That  echoes  up  from  the  blood-thick  sea 

And  up  from  the  wreck  and  rout 


333 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  down  from  the  staff  on  the  high  cross-tree 
Where  the  flag  is  signalling  out : 
"  Keep  on." 

The  warpath  is  true  and  straight, 

It  knoweth  no  left  nor  right ; 
Mars  loves  not  the  man  who  would  deviate,  - 

For  the  way  to  fight  is  to  fight. 

—  Chicago  Record. 


334 


CUBA   LIBRE. 


/^OMES  a  cry  from  Cuban  water, — 
From  the  warm,  dusk  Antilles, — 
From  the  lost  Atlanta's  daughter, 

Drowned  in  blood  as  drowned  in  seas ; 
Comes  a  cry  of  purpled  anguish,  — 

See  her  struggles,  hear  her  cries  ! 
Shall  she  live,  or  shall  she  languish  ? 

Shall  she  sink,  or  shall  she  rise  ? 

She  shall  rise,  by  all  that's  holy ! 

She  shall  live  and  she  shall  last ; 
Rise  as  we,  when  crushed  and  lowly 

From  the  blackness  of  the  past. 
Bid  her  strike  !     Lo,  it  is  written 

Blood  for  blood  and  life  for  life. 
Bid  her  smite,  as  she  is  smitten ; 

Stars  and  stripes  were  born  of  strife. 

Once  we  flashed  her  lights  of  freedom, 

Lights  that  dazzled  her  dark  eyes 
Till  she  could  but  yearning  heed  them, 

Reach  her  hands  and  try  to  rise. 
Then  they  stabbed  her,  choked  her,  drowned  her 

Till  we  scarce  could  hear  a  note. 


335 


POEMS    OF    AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Ah  !  these  rusting  chains  that  bound  her  ! 
Oh  !  these  robbers  at  her  throat ! 

And  the  kind  who  forged  these  fetters  ? 

Ask  five  hundred  years  for  news. 
Stake  and  thumbscrew  for  their  betters  ! 

Inquisitions  !     Banished  Jews ! 
Chains  and  slavery !     What  reminder 

Of  one  red  man  in  that  land  ? 
Why,  these  very  chains  that  bind  her 

Bound  Columbus,  foot  and  hand ! 

She  shall  rise  as  rose  Columbus, 

From  his  chains,  from  shame  and  wrong, 
Rise  as  Morning,  matchless,  wondrous,  — 

Rise  as  some  rich  morning  song,  — 
Rise  a  ringing  song  and  story, 

Valor,  Love  personified. 
Stars  and  stripes  espouse  her  glory, 

Love  and  Liberty  allied. 


336 


THE    SONG   OF   DEWEY'S    GUNS. 


of  ©etoetfs  (Buns, 


V\7"HAT  is  this  thunder  music  from  the  other  side 

of  the  world, 
That  pulses  through  the  severing  seas  and  'round 

the  planet  runs? 
'Tis  the  death-song  of   old  Spain  floating  from  the 

Asian  main  ; 

There's  a  tale  of  crumbling  empire  in  the  song  of 
Dewey's  guns  ! 

The  hand  that  held  the  sceptre  once  of  all  the  great 

world  seas, 
And  paved  the  march  with  dead  men's  bones  'neath 

all  the  circling  suns, 
Grew  faint  with  deadly  fear  when  that  thunder-song 

drew  near, 

For  the  dirge  of  Spain  was  sounded  by  the  song  of 
Dewey's  guns  ! 

There  is  music  in  a  cannon  yet  for  all  sons  of  peace,  — 
Yea,  the  port-hole's  belching  anthem  is  soft  music 

to  her  sons 
When   the   iron   thunder-song   sings   the    death    of 

ancient  wrong,  — 

And  a  dying  wrong  was  chanted  by  the  song  of 
Dewey's  guns. 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 

337 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Cofumfiia 


/COLUMBIA  beside  the  ocean  stands, 

And  greets  the  morn  with  an  unclouded  brow, 
For  even  now 

Unwonted  splendors  tinge  the  conscious  sands, 
And  as  she  lists, 
The  world's  approval  comes  from  out  the  mists. 


From  the  far  Orient  where  beauty  dwells, 
Where  vernal  isles  wait  breathless  on  her  name, 
A  sweet  acclaim 

Comes  like  the  magic  whisper  of  their  shells, 
And  in  the  cry 
She  marks  the  vibrant  note  of  victory ! 

With  glowing  cheek  and  an  enkindled  eye, 
With  confident  yet  wistful  glance  she  peers, 
As  now  she  hears 

The  surges  where  the  western  Indies  lie, 
And  sees  the  gleam 
Of  her  ships'  wake,  fast  speeding  east,  supreme. 

Anon  from  Cuba  comes  the  hearty  hail 
Of  patriots  whose  star  is  beaming  bright ; 

338 


WHERE   COLUMBIA    STANDS. 


After  the  night 

Of  helplessness,  crushed  by  the  hand  of  mail, 
Thus  left  to  die, 
God  hears  the  dark  bondwoman's  children  cry ! 

—  Arthur  Howard  Hall. 


339 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


tyoice  from  f0e  4)fo  Q&OES  feeft 


A7"ES,  we  marched  in  the  ranks  to  the  station, 

Escortin'  the  "  boys  o'  to-day." 
An'  the  youngsters  enjoyed  the  ovation 

As  if  'twas  a  new  kind  o'  play, 
This  gift  o'  young  lives  to  the  nation,  — 

A-treadin'  on  hearts  all  the  day. 

The  music,  the  flags,  and  paradin' 
Of  course  lent  a  mask  to  our  fears  ; 

You'd  a-thought  we  preferred  blood  to  wade  in, 
An'  we  bid  'em  good-by  with  our  cheers. 

But  somehow  our  eyesight  seemed  f  adin',  — 
Haven't  felt  quite  so  briny  for  years. 

Yes,  I  know  that  it's  hist'ry  repeatin', 
An'  how  easy  an'  natural  it  came, 

When  the  sixty-one  drums  were  a-beatin' 
Their  rat-tat  to  glory  and  fame, 

For  us  to  enlist,  duty  greetin',  — 

But,  comrade,  this  don't  seem  the  same. 

We  are  proud  o'  the  boys,  no  denyin', 

But  they  seemed  only  boys  as  they  passed 
To  receive  our  salute,  flags  a-flyin', 

340 


VOICE  FROM  THE  OLD  BOYS  LEFT  BEHIND. 


Too  young,  and  too  good  to  be  cast 
For  our  parts  in  the  drama  o'  dyin', 
Writin'  hist'ry  in  blood  hard  and  fast. 

You've  noticed  the  Vets  weren't  enthusin' 
For  the  "  horrors  o'  war  "  to  begin, 

Till  the  Maine  left  us  small  chance  for  choosin', 
An'  humanity's  claim  led  us  in. 

God  knows  there's  no  other  excusin' 
This  shadow  o'  hell  chasm'  sin ! 

Bein'  in,  Uncle  Sam  must  keep  stayin' 

Till  the  things  settled  right,  —  that's  plain; 

Meanwhile  let  the  band  keep  on  playin', 
An'  the  Vets  will  all  join  the  refrain, 

A-mixin'  hurrahin'  with  prayin', 

While  the  boys  do  our  fightin'  with  Spain. 

God  bless  'em,  —  this  new  generation,  — 

No  manlier  boys  will  you  find ; 
They  can  whip,  man  for  man,  all  creation, 

An'  we'll  have  all  their  glory  enshrined 
In  the  hearts  o'  a  united  nation,  — 

Shake,  pard,  — tho'  they've  left  us  behind  ! 

— John  H.  Jewett. 


34i 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


TONIGHT  of  the  Eastern  seas,  thy  fadeless  fame 

Is  writ  in  War's  red  blazing  letters  high 
Upon  the  backing  of  that  Orient  sky, 
That  glitters  with  the  lustre  of  thy  name  ; 
And  tells  the  Saxon  blood  doth  course  the  same 
Through  all  the  branches  of  that  mighty  tree 
That  shades  the  farthest  league  of  land  and  sea. 
A  nation's  pride,  a  race's  glad  acclaim, 
Are  thine.     From  far  Manila's  bloody  main 
We  heard  the  voice  of  God's  new  Sinai, 
That  bade  the  red  requital  of  thy  guns 
Wipe  out  Havana's  foul  assassin  stain. 
Avenged  at  last,  our  dear  dead  heroes  lie, 
An  unforgetting  land's  remembered  sons. 

—  Frank  A.  Marshall. 


342 


TO   ADMIRAL    GEORGE   DEWEY. 


descendant  of  a  glorious  line,— 
Jones,  Perry,  Hull,  Decatur,  heroes  bold, 
Who  fought  this  nation's  brave  sea  fights  of  old, 
And  Farragut,  whose  great  deeds  on  the  brine 
Through    our    wild    civil    strife    with    fierce    glow 

shine,  — 

Dewey,  all  hail !  With  theirs  is  now  enrolled 
Thy  name ;  with  theirs  thy  story  will  be  told ; 
Thy  country's  praise  and  gratitude  are  thine ; 
Thy  daring  sally  in  Manila  Bay 

Has   stirred   the   whole   world's   pulse,   and   well 

begun 
The  war  for  human  rights  we  wage  to-day 

With  consecrated  sword.     Hero,  well  done ! 
Thy  fleet  was  Heaven-directed  in  that  fray, 
No  grander  battle  e'er  yet  fought  and  won. 

—  Virginia   Vaughan. 


343 


POEMS    OF    AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


of 


V\7E'RE  faring  with  the  fleet 

Where  the  ocean  billows  beat  ; 
Love  sends  on  singing  sea-winds  his  messages  so 

sweet  ; 

And  speed  our  brave  ships  well 
Where  the  ocean  thunders  swell. 
The  prayers  and  tears  of  Love  are  theirs,  — 
Speed  well  !  Speed  well  !  Speed  well  ! 

We're  faring  with  the  fleet 

Where  the  isles  rejoicing  greet 

The  flag  for  which  the  patriot  hearts  of  cheer- 

ing millions  beat  ; 
And  speed  our  brave  ships  well 
Till  shouts  of  Victory  swell  ; 
The  prayers  and  tears  of  Love  are  theirs,  — 
Speed  well  !  Speed  well  !  Speed  well  ! 

—  Frank  L.  Stanton. 


344 


THE   AWAKENING   OF   UNCLE   SAM. 


ng  of  (Uncfe  |iam. 


"  (^)H,  Uncle  Sam,"  they  said,  "has  grown  fat  and 

loves  his  ease, 
And    he    lingers    long    at    table,    and    distends    his 

growing  girth  ; 
The  strong  arm  we  used  to  know  has  grown  slug- 

gard-like and  slow, 
And  they  mock  his  smug  indifference  to  the  ends  of 

all  the  earth. 

"As  his  money-bags  grow  heavy  does  his  love  of 

man  grow  small, 
As  his  cushioned  chair  grows  softer  does  his  cal- 

loused heart  grow  hard; 

He  is  careless  of  his  fame,  and  the  glory  of  his  name, 
And  the  vision  of  the  prophet,  and  the  rapture  of 

the  bard. 

"  And  the   tyrants  in  their  anger  lash  their  slaves 

before  his  eyes, 
And  he  turns  his  sleepy  features  tow'rd  their  faces 

hot  with  tears, 
And  he  sits  between  his  seas  in  his  soft,  voluptuous 

ease, 
And  the  voices  of  their  torment  smite  his  undiscern- 

ing  ears." 

345 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Ah,  the  slander  of  the  tongues  that  proclaimed  his 

heart  was  cold! 
Ah,  the  error  of  the  dotage  that  believed  his  arm 

was  weak! 
Ah,  the  folly,  mad  and  dire,  that  provoked  the  slow 

to  ire, 
And  the  pride  that's  in  the  careless,  and  the  might 

that's  in  the  meek ! 

He  has  risen  from  his  feasting,  the  old  look  is  on  his 

face, 
For  the  voices  of  the  helpless  and  the  dying  throng 

his  path, 
For  he  sees  at  last  their  tears,  and  their  groans  are  in 

his  ears, 
And  his  arm  is  clothed  with  thunder,  and  his  heart  is 

nerved  with  wrath  ! 

We   have   wronged   him,   the    forbearing,   him   the 

patient,  slow  to  smite, 
And  we  love  him  more  than  ever,  and  are  prouder  of 

his  fame ; 
And  we  weep  the  taunts  we  uttered  and  whispered 

sneers  we  muttered,  — 
For  the  guns  before  Manila  silenced  all  the  tongues 

of  blame. 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 


346 


CUBA'S    APPEAL. 


r\   FAIREST  of  the  blue  Antilles, 

Scarred  by  the  foeman's  sword  and  steel, 
Our  hearts  leap  to  thy  mute  appeal. 

Shall  we  pass  with  averted  eye, 

Or  but  the  tribute  of  a  sigh, 

Where  Cuban  brothers,  starving,  lie  ? 

Where  babes  wail  on  the  icy  breast 
Of  mothers  in  their  long,  last  rest, 
Dead,  amid  horrors  unexpressed  ? 

Where  fathers  watch  with  anguished  eye, 
While  famished  children  gasp  and  die, 
Their  only  roof  the  pitying  sky  ? 

Ah,  could  we  deaf  and  silent  be 
'Mid  all  this  untold  agony, 
Nor  strike  a  blow  for  Cuba  free, 

Methinks  our  valiant  dead  would  rise 
And,  from  the  depths  of  sightless  eyes, 
Transfix  us  with  their  mute  surprise : 

347 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Flashing  reproach  on  you  and  me, 

Heirs  of  a  blood-bought  liberty, 

That  we  should  live  and  such  things  be. 

Nay,  by  the  homes  we  hold  so  dear, 
Never  shall  rise  a  wail  so  drear 
And  we  not  hear,  and  we  not  hear. 

Back  to  your  hills,  O  men  of  Spain ! 
Our  war-ships  at  their  anchors  strain, 
Back  !  shall  the  warning  sound  in  vain  ? 

Back  to  your  homes  across  the  waves  ! 
Back  to  your  crosses  and  your  graves  ! 
Plead  ye  for  grace  from  him  who  saves ! 

E'en  now  too  late !  what  form  is  this  ? 
Grim  in  her  dread  relentlessness, 
Within  thy  gates  stands  Nemesis  ! 

—  Carrie  Shaw  Rice. 


348 


JOINED   THE   BLUES. 


jjoineb  fl)e  Q&fues. 

CAYS  Stonewall  Jackson  to  "Little  Phil:"  "Phil, 

have  you  heard  the  news  ? 
Why,  our  Joe  Wheeler  — «  Fighting  Joe '  —  has  gone 

and  joined  the  Blues. 

"  Ay,  no  mistake,  —  I  saw  him  come,  —  I  heard  the 

oath  he  took, — 
And  you'll  find  it  duly  entered  up  in  yon  great  record 

book. 

"Yes,  Phil,  it  is  a  change  since  then  (we  give  the 

Lord  due  thanks), 
When  Joe  came  sweeping  like  a  hawk  upon  your 

Sherman's  flanks  ! 

"  Why,  Phil,  you  knew  the  trick  yourself,  —  but  Joe 

had  all  the  points,  — 
And  we've  yet  to  hear  his  horses  died  of  stiff  or  rusty 

joints ! 

"But  what  of  that?  —  the   deed   I    saw  tc^day   in 

yonder  town 
Leads  all  we  did  and  all  Joe  did  in  troopings  up  and 

down; 

349 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


"For,  Phil,  that  oath  shall  be  the  heal  of  many  a 

bleeding  wound, 
And  many  a  Southland  song  shall  yet  to  that  same 

oath  be  tuned ! 

"  The  oath  Joe  swore  has  done  the  work  of  thrice  a 

score  of  years,  — 
Ay,  more  than  oath,  —  he  swore  away  mistrust  and 

hate  and  tears !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  says  Phil,  "  he  was,  indeed,  a  right  good 

worthy  foe, 
And  well  he  knew,  in  those  fierce  days,  to  give  us 

blow  for  blow ! 

"When  Joe  came  'round  to  pay  a  call,  —  the  com- 
missaries said, — 

Full  many  a  swearing,  grumbling  <Yank'  went 
supperless  to  bed; 

"He  seemed  to  have  a  pesky  knack — so  Sherman 

used  to  say  — 
Of  calling,  when  he  should  by  rights  be  ninety  miles 

away ! 

"Come,    Stonewall,  put  your  hand  in  mine:   Joe's 

sworn  old  Samuel's  oath ; 
We're  never  North  or  South  again,  —  he  kissed  the 

book  for  both  !  " 

— John  Lerome  Rooney. 

35° 


MANILA    BAY. 


(JJtanifa 


*"pHE  first  great  fight  of  the  war  is  fought  ! 

And  who  is  the  victor,  —  say,  — 
Is  there  aught  of  the  lesson  now  left  untaught 
By  the  fight  of  Manila  Bay  ? 

Two  by  two  were  the  Spanish  ships 

Formed  in  their  battle  line  ; 

Their  flags  at  the  taffrail,  peak  and  fore, 
And  batt'ries  ready  upon  the  shore, 

Silently  biding  their  time. 

Into  their  presence  sailed  our  fleet,  — 
The  harbor  was  fully  mined,  — 
With  shotted  guns  and  open  ports 
Up  to  their  ships,  —  ay,  —  up  to  their  forts  ; 
For  Dewey  is  danger-blind. 

Signalled  tne  flagship,  "  Open  fire," 

And  the  guns  belched  forth  their  death. 
"  At  closer  range,"  was  the  order  shown  ; 
Then  each  ship  sprang  to  claim  her  own, 
And  to  lick  her  fiery  breath. 

Served  were  our  squadron's  heavy  guns, 
With  gunners  stripped  to  the  waist, 

351 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  the  blinding,  swirling,  sulph'rous  smoke 
Enveloped  the  ships,  as  each  gun  spoke, 
In  its  furious,  fearful  haste. 

Sunk  and  destroyed  were  the  Spanish  ships, 
Hulled  by  our  heavy  shot, 

For  the  Yankee  spirit  is  just  the  same, 
And  the  Yankee  grit  and  the  Yankee  aim, 
And  their  courage  which  faileth  not. 

The  first  great  fight  of  the  war  is  fought, 

And  who  is  victor,  —  say,  — 
Is  there  aught  of  the  lesson  now  left  untaught 

By  the  fight  of  Manila  Bay  ? 

—  H.E.  W.,Jr. 


35* 


WAR    PRAYER. 


TTELP  us  to  win,  O  Lord,  on  sea  and  land; 

Not  by  the  might  alone  of  armored  battle-ships, 

But  thy  strong  hand, 

Though  all  unseen  thy  shining  cohorts  must  remain ; 
Help  us,  for  Spain's  own  sake,  to  conquer  Spain. 

Victorious  host,  which  never  fought  in  vain 

On  earth's  red  battle-fields, 
Invincible,  invisible,  nerve  the  arm 

That  Freedom's  keen  blade  wields, 
And  let  the  smoke  of  battle  blown  away 

By  Liberty's  free  air 
With  freemen's  shouts  of  victory  resound 

Where  brave  men  do  and  dare. 


Strike  off  Spain's  mouldering  chains, 

That  bind  her  to  a  still  more  mouldering  past, 
And  let  her  feel  the  wine  of  freedom  glow 

Through  all  her  veins  at  last. 
Teach  her,  Columbia,  what  thyself  hast  learned 

Through  fire  and  smoke  and  blood, — 
All  men  are  brethren  dear  alike 

Unto  their  common  father,  God. 

353 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Teach  her  that  chains  of  love  are  stronger  far 
Than  clanking  steel  or  ponderous  prison  bar ; 
Mercy  that  tempers  justice  far  more  meet 
Than  despot's  lash  to  bring  men  to  her  feet. 
Help  her,  that  on  her  own  Castilian  shore 
The  hand  of  tyranny  be  felt  no  more, 
And  Freedom's  banner  float  from  every  height 
To  show  that  Spain  at  last  has  learned 
That  right  is  might. 

—  M.J.H. 


354 


AND   JOE    WENT. 


jjoe  Went 


he  heerd  the  battle-cry 
Joe  jes'  seemed  to  set  an  eye 
On  to  me,  much  as  to  say  : 
"  Dad,  it's  mighty  hard  to  stay  !  " 
Got  to  mopin'  'round  the  place 
With  a  battle-hungry  face,  — 
Mopin'  like  his  daddy  done 
Back  in  Eighteen  Sixty-one. 

Once  or  twice  he'd  make  a  break 
Liken  he  was  goin'  to  speak  ; 
Then  he'd  swaller  at  a  lump 
In  his  throat,  an'  then  the  chump 
Seemed  to  weaken,  like  he  thought 
His  request'd  make  me  hot. 
Then  he'd  sneak  away,  an'  I 
Feelin'  half  inclined  to  cry. 

Grabbed  the  paper  every  day 
In  a  sort  of  nervous  way, 
An'  he'd  read  the  stirrin'  news, 
Twitchin'  to  his  very  shoes. 
Bit  his  lips  an'  sort  o'  sighed, 
Full  o'  signs  he  couldn't  hide, 

355 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Till  his  mother  asked  him,  "  Joe, 
What's  a-eatin'  at  you  so  ?  " 

"  Nothin',"  he  would  say,  '  I'm  jes' 
Nervous  like,  an'  sorter  guess 
That  I'm  bilious,"  then  he'd  sneak 
Over  there  acrost  the  creek, 
Me  a-watchin'  him,  an'  there 
I  could  tell  that  it  was  swear 
Kep'  his  lips  a-movin'  so,  — 
He  was  in  a  stew,  was  Joe ! 

Finally  I  said  one  day : 
"  Boy,  why  don't  you  say  yer  say 
Like  a  man,  an'  not  go  'round 
Eyes  a-draggin'  on  the  ground  ? 
Long  'fore  you  were  born,  yer  dad 
Had  that  same,  an'  had  it  bad, 
An'  he  went,  you  bet,  —  an'  Joe, 
If  you  want  to  go,  jes'  go !  " 

Ort  to  see  him  look  !  an'  —  well, 
Neighbors  said  they  heerd  him  yell 
Up  an'  down  the  creek  a  mile, 
An'  you'd  ort  to  seed  him  pile 
On  to  me  an'  hug  me  till 
Both  my  eyes  begun  to  spill, 

356 


AND    JOE    WENT. 


An'  a  lump  stuck  in  my  throat 
Bigger  than  a  month-old  shoat. 

Got  a  letter  t'other  day 

From  that  Denver  camp  where  they 

Are  a-rendevooin'.     Joe 

Says  the  cussed  rain  an'  snow 

Ain't  a  bloomin'  picnic,  yit 

He  ain't  weakenin'  a  bit, 

An'  we'll  hear  from  him  when  he 

Goes  to  set  oP  Cuby  free. 

—  Denver  Post. 


357 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


fating  Coaf  to  QJncfe 


T  AM  the  king  of  strife  and  calm,  — 

Now  a  whistle  and  now  a  moan,  — 
I  have  seized  the  sceptre  and  torn  the  palm 

From  the  wind  on  his  bauble  throne. 
My  pipe  in  his  face  I  boldly  puff 

Till  his  rage  my  soul  inspires. 
And  I  draw  him  down  and  his  cries  I  drown 
In  the  glee  of  a  billion  fires  ! 

Oh,  I  am  king  of  the  land  and  sea, 

King  of  the  field  and  foam, 
King  of  the  mountain,  hill,  and  lea, 
King  of  the  hearth  and  home  ! 

Heir  of  the  lordly  limbs  and  leaves,  — 

Now  a  whistle  and  now  a  moan,  — 
And  my  sires,  up-garnered  in  mammoth  sheaves, 

On  the  floors  of  the  world  were  strown. 
Yet  up  through  the  starless  roofs  I  come, 

And  the  sentry  breezes  quail  ; 
And  the  furnace  glow  is  the  flag  I  throw 

In  the  teeth  of  the  howling  gale  ! 
Oh,  I  am  king  of  the  land  and  sea, 
King  of  the  field  and  foam, 

358 


KING   COAL   TO   UNCLE   SAM. 


King  of  the  mountain,  vale,  and  lea, 
King  of  the  hearth  and  home ! 

Tears  for  the  straining  sail  and  sheet, — 

Now  a  whistle  and  now  a  moan,  — 
As  the  waves  ride  over  the  fated  fleet 

At  the  whim  of  the  wild  wind  blown. 
But  cheers  for  the  million-muscled  oars 

That  I  make  from  drops  of  rain ; 
For  as  coal  I  am  king,  and  the  song  I  sing 
Is  a  dirge  to  the  fleet  of  Spain  ! 
Oh,  I  am  king  of  the  land  and  sea, 

King  of  the  field  and  foam, 
King  of  the  mountain,  hill,  and  lea, 
King  of  the  hearth  and  home  ! 

—  E.  F.  Burns. 


359 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


QJace  of  f#e  Oregon. 


T    IGHTS  out!     And  a  prow  turned  towards  the 

*-*       South, 

And  a  canvas  hiding  each  cannon's  mouth, 

And  a  ship  like  a  silent  ghost  released 

Is  seeking  her  sister  ships  in  the  East. 

A  rush  of  water,  a  foaming  trail, 
An  ocean  hound  in  a  coat  of  mail, 
A  deck  long-lined  with  the  lines  of  fate, 
She  roars  good-by  at  the  Golden  Gate. 

On  !     On  !     Alone  without  gong  or  bell, 
But  a.  burning  fire  like  the  fire  of  hell, 
Till  the  lookout  starts  as  his  glasses  show 
The  white  cathedral  of  Callao. 

A  moment's  halt  'neath  the  slender  spire  ; 
Food,  food  for  the  men  and  food  for  the  fire. 
Then  out  to  the  sea  to  rest  no  more 
Till  her  keel  is  grounded  on  Chile's  shore. 

South  !     South  !     God  guard  through  the 

unknown  wave 
Where  chart  nor  compass  may  help  or  save, 

360 


THE   RACE   OF   THE   OREGON. 


Where  the  hissing  wraiths  of  the  sea  abide 
And  few  may  pass  through  the  stormy  tide. 

North  !     North !     For  a  harbor  far  away, 
For  another  breath  in  the  burning  day ; 
For  a  moment's  shelter  from  speed  and  pain, 
And  a  prow  to  the  tropic  sea  again. 

Home!      Home!     With   the  mother  fleet  to 

sleep 

Till  the  call  shall  rise  o'er  the  awful  deep ; 
And  the  bell  shall  clang  for  the  battle  there, 
And  the  voice  of  guns  is  the  voice  of  prayer ! 

One  more  to  the  songs  of  the  bold  and  free, 
When  your  children  gather  about  your  knee ; 
When  the  Goths  and  Vandals  come  down  in 

might 

As  they  came  to  the  walls  of  Rome  one  night ; 
When  the  lordly  William  of  Deloraine 
Shall  ride  by  the  Scottish  lake  again ; 
When  the  Hessian  spectres  shall  flit  in  air 
As  Washington  crosses  the  Delaware ; 
When  the  eyes  of  babes  shall  be  closed  in 

dread 
As  the  story  of  Paul  Revere  is  read : 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


When  your  boys  shall  ask  what  the  guns  are 

for, 

Then  tell  them  the  tale  of  the  Spanish  war, 
And  the  breathless  millions  that  looked  upon 
The  matchless  race  of  the  Oregon. 

— John  James  Meehan. 


362 


UNCOVER   TO   THE   FLAG. 


Qlncofcer  to 


T  TNCOVER  to  the  flag;  bare  head 
Sorts  well  with  heart  as,  humbly 
bowed, 

We  stand  in  presence  of  the  dead 
Who  make  the  flag  their  shroud. 

Uncover  to  the  flag,  for  there 
The  patriot  past  is  typified, 

Of  those  who  taught  us  how  to  dare 
For  liberty,  and  died. 

Uncover  to  the  flag,  for  those 
Of  Concord  and  of  Bunker  Hill, 

The  first  to  fire  on  freedom's  foes, 
With  shots  that  echo  still. 

Uncover  to  the  flag,  for  him 

Who  sang  the  song,  the  gallant  Key, 
When  in  the  dawn  hour,  gray  and  dim, 

He  strained,  its  stars  to  see. 

Uncover  to  the  flag,  for  one 

Who  scorned  to  have  his  colors  dip, 
And  fighting  all  but  flying  none, 

Cried,  "  Don't  give  up  the  ship." 

363 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Uncover  to  the  flag,  for  him 

Who  stoutly  nailed  it  to  the  mast, 

And  dauntlessly,  or  sink  or  swim, 
Stood  by  it  to  the  last. 

Uncover  to  the  flag ;  the  land 
It  floats  above  is  one  anew,  — 

The  North  and  South,  now  hand  in  hand, 
See  God's  skies,  gray  and  blue. 

Uncover  to  the  flag ;  it  flew 

Above  the  men  who  manned  the  Maine, 
The  pledge  that  we  will  mete  the  due 

Of  vengeance  out  to  Spain  ! 

Uncover  to  the  flag ;  it  stands 

For  all  of  bravest,  all  of  best, 
In  us  with  flower-laden  hands, 

In  those  who  lie  at  rest. 

—  E.  C.  Cheverton. 


364 


ENLISTED. 

(Enfisfefc. 

The  Old  Soldier  Speaks. 

T  FOUGHT  under  Lee  and  Stonewall, 

And  I  hated  a  Yankee  like  sin, 
But  gimme  my  uniform,  sergeant, 
I'm  going  to  fight  ag'in. 

I  took  out  my  old  gray  clothes  last  night, 
I  thought  of  the  day  they  was  new, 

And  I  looked  at  the  holes  in  the  left-hand 

sleeve 
Where  a  minie  ball  went  through. 

And  I  heard  the  band  play  "  Dixie,"  — 
By  God  !  I  heard  every  note,  — 

And  I  thought  of  Manassas  and  Shiloh, 
And  a  lump  came  up  in  my  throat. 

And  I  said,  "  Go  back  to  that  old  oak  chest, 
There  ain't  no  more  service  for  you ; 

I'm  goin'  to  fight  on  the  side  that's  right, 
And  I'm  going  to  wear  the  blue !  " 

There's  jest  one  thought  in  every  heart, 
One  word  in  every  mouth ; 

365 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


For  things  is  all  so  twisted  around 
That  there  ain't  no  North  nor  South. 

I  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this ; 

It's  strange,  but  I  reckon  it's  true ; 
For  it's  jest  one  country  and  jest  one  flag, 

And  we're  all  a-wearin'  the  blue  ! 

—  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 


366 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS. 


(gten  Q5e0in&  *0e  (Buns. 


A    CHEER  and  salute  for  the  admiral,  and  here's  to 

the  captain  bold, 
And  never  forget  the  commodore's  debt  when  the 

deeds  of  might  are  told  ! 
They  stand  to  the  deck  thro'  the  battle's  wreck,  when 

the  great  shells  roar  and  screech,  — 
And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to  practise 

what  they  preach  ; 
But   off   with   your   hat   and  three  times  three  for 

Columbia's  true-blue  sons,  — 
The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe,  —  the  men  behind 

the  guns  ! 


Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when  they 

swing  into  port  once  more, 
When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "  green-backed 

stuff,"  they  start  for  their  leave-o'-shore ; 
And  you'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue-bloused  chaps 

who  loll  along  the  street 
Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some  "  mustache  " 

to  eat,  — 

367 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who  dazzles 

and  fairly  stuns 
The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys,  —  the  lads  who 

serve  the  guns. 

But  say  not  a  word  till  a  shot  is  heard  that  tells  the 

fight  is  on, 
Till  the  long  deep  roar  grows  more  and  more  from 

the  ships  of  "  Yank  "  and  "  Don," 
Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire  and 

bursting  shell, 
And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  Despair  in  the  throes  of  a 

living  hell ; 
Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship,  unseen  by 

the  midday  suns, 
You'll  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps,  —  the 

men  behind  the  guns ! 

Oh,  well  they  know  how  the  cyclones  blow  that  they 

loose  from  their  cloud  of  wrath, 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunder-word  their  fierce 

ten-inchers  saith  ! 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock,  and 

shake  with  the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead  and 

reaches  for  its  spoil,  — 

368 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS. 


But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below,  or  turns  his  prow 

and  runs, 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release  to  the 

men  behind  the  guns  ! 

— John  James  Rooney. 


369 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


in  (glanifa 

TT  E  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  didn't  lose  a 

man  — 

(Raise  your  heads  and  cheer  him  as  he  goes  ! ) 
He  licked  the  sneaky  Spaniard  till  the  fellow  cut  and 

ran, 
For  fighting's  part  of  what  a  Yankee  knows. 

He  fought  'em  and  he  licked  'em,  and  he  didn't  give 

ad 

(It  was  only  his  profession  for  to  win), 
He  sank  their  boats  beneath  'em,  and  he  spared  'em 

as  they  swam, 
And  then  he  sent  his  ambulances  in. 

He  had  no  word  to  cheer  him  and  had  no  bands  to 

play, 

He  had  no  crowds  to  make  his  duty  brave ; 
But  he  risked  the  deep  torpedoes  at  the  breaking  of 

the  day, 
For  he  knew  he  had  our  self-respect  to  save. 

He  flew  the  angry  signal  crying  justice  for  the  Maine, 
He  flew  it  from  his  flagship  as  he  fought. 

He  drove  the  tardy  vengeance  in  the  very  teeth  of 

Spain, 
And  he  did  it  just  because  he  thought  he  ought. 

370 


DEWEY    IN    MANILA    BAY. 


He  busted  up  their  batteries,  and  sank  eleven  ships 
(He  knew  what  he  was  doing,  every  bit); 

He  set  the  Maxims  going  like  a  hundred  cracking 

whips, 
And  every  shot  that  crackled  was  a  hit. 

He  broke  'em  and  he  drove  'em,  and  he  didn't  care 

at  all, 

He  only  liked  to  do  as  he  was  bid ; 
He  crumpled  up  their  squadron  and  their  batteries 

and  all, - 
He  knew  he  had  to  lick  'em,  and  he  did. 

And  when  the  thing  was  finished  and  they  flew  the 

frightened  flag, 

He  slung  his  guns  and  sent  his  foot  ashore, 
And  he  gathered    in  their  wounded,  and   he  quite 

forgot  to  brag, 
For  he  thought  he  did  his  duty,  nothing  more. 

Oh,  he  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  didn't  lose  a 

man  — 

(Raise  your  heads  and  cheer  him  as  he  goes  ! ) 
He  licked  the  sneaky  Spaniard  till  the  fellow  cut  and 

ran, 
For  fighting's  part  of  what  a  Yankee  knows  ! 

—  R.  V.Risley. 


37i 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


Jiptrif  of  f0e  (JJlaine. 


T  N  battle-line  of  sombre  gray 
Our  ships  of  war  advance, 
As  Red  Cross  knights  in  holy  fray 

Charged  with  avenging  lance. 
And  terrible  shall  be  thy  plight, 

O  fleet  of  cruel  Spain  ! 
For  ever  in  our  van  doth  fight 

The  spirit  of  the  Maine  / 

As  when,  beside  Regillus  Lake, 

The  great  twin  brethren  came 
A  righteous  fight  for  Rome  to  make 

Against  a  deed  of  shame, 
So  now  a  ghostly  ship  shall  doom 

The  fleet  of  treacherous  Spain,  — 
Before  her  guilty  soul  doth  loom 

The  spirit  of  the  Maine  / 

A  wraith  arrayed  in  peaceful  white, 

As  when  asleep  she  lay 
Above  the  traitorous  mine  that  night 

Within  Havana  Bay, 

372 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE    MAINE. 


She  glides  before  the  avenging  fleet 

A  sign  of  woe  to  Spain. 
Brave  though  her  sons,  how  shall  they 

meet 
The  spirit  of  the  Maine  ? 

—  Tudor  Jenks. 


373 


POEMS   OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


QJlemoriaf 

"  Under  the  roses  the  blue ; 
Under  the  lilies  the  gray." 


f~\  H,  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the 
W      blue, 

And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the  gray, 
We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 

And  in  silence  beneath 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day. 

Over  the  new-turned  sod 

The  sons  of  our  fathers  stand, 

And  the  fierce  old  fight 

Slips  out  of  sight 

In  the  clasp  of  a  brother's  hand. 

For  the  old  blood  left  a  stain 
That  the  new  has  washed  away, 

And  the  sons  of  those 

That  have  faced  as  foes 

Are  marching  together  to-day. 

Oh,  the  blood  that  our  fathers  gave ! 
Oh,  the  tide  of  our  mothers'  tears ! 

374 


THE    NEW    MEMORIAL    DAY. 


And  the  flow  of  red, 
And  the  tears  they  shed, 
Embittered  a  sea  of  years. 

But  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the 

blue, 
And  the  lilies  we  twined  for  the 

gray 

We  have  bound  in  a  wreath, 
And  in  glory  beneath 

Slumber  our  heroes  to-day  ! 

— Albert  Bigelow  Paine. 


375 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


in's  gout  of  ©com. 


Written  on  the  declaration  of  Cuban  independence 
by  the  American  Congress. 

C  PAIN'S  hour  has  struck.     No  more  her 
flag 

Shall  float  o'er  Cuba's  fateful  isle. 

Her  reign  of  treachery  and  guile 
Is  o'er.     No  more  shall  vengeance  lag. 

Back  to  their  gaunt  Iberian  crag 
Her  desolating  legions  hurl, 
Or  let  the  wild  Atlantic's  swirl 

Their  souls  and  bodies  hellward  drag. 

Ay,  let  her  new  armada  flee 

Westward  her  tyranny  to  maintain. 
We  will,  in  memory  of  the  Maine, 

Meet  it  and  sink  it  in  the  sea. 


Out  of  the  Western  Hemisphere 

Spain's  yellow  banner  soon  shall  fade. 
No  more  by  her  shall  graves  be  made 

Where  grain  should  grow  and  fruits  appear. 

376 


SPAIN'S    HOUR    OF    DOOM. 


No  more  her  fiends  with  sword  and  fire 
The  Cubans'  homes  shall  devastate, 
Slay  sons,  and  daughters  violate 

Before  their  mother  and  their  sire. 

The  infamy  of  Spain  shall  loom 
Black  over  the  devoted  isle 
No  longer.     Not  by  force  or  wile 

Can  she  put  back  the  hour  of  doom. 

That  hour  has  struck.     From  Morro's  height 
Haul  down  her  old  dishonored  flag, 
While  back  to  her  Iberian  crag, 

She  takes  her  ignominious  flight. 

—  Albert  Roland  Haven. 


377 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


erf  (tttanifa. 


"~p\VAS  the  very  verge  of  May 
When  the  bold  Olympia  led 
Into  Bocagrande  Bay 

Dewey's  squadron,  dark  and  dread, 
Creeping  past  Corregidor, 
Guardian  of  Manila's  shore. 

Do  they  sleep  who  wait  the  fray  ? 

Is  the  moon  so  dazzling  bright 
That  our  cruisers'  battle-gray 

Melts  into  the  misty  light  ? 
Ah  !  the  red  flash  and  the  roar  ! 
Wakes  at  last  Corregidor  ! 

All  too  late  her  screaming  shell 
Tears  the  silence  with  its  track  ; 

This  is  but  the  gate  to  hell, 
We've  no  leisure  to  turn  back. 

Answer,  Concord  !  —  then  once  more 

Slumber  on,  Corregidor. 

And  as,  like  a  slowing  tide, 

Onward  still  the  vessels  creep, 
Dewey,  watching,  falcon-eyed, 

378 


DEWEY    AT    MANILA. 


Orders,  —  "  Let  the  gunners  sleep ; 
For  we  meet  a  foe  at  four 
Fiercer  than  Corregidor." 

Well  they  slept,  for  well  they  knew 
What  the  morrow  taught  us  all,  — 

He  was  wise  (as  well  as  true) 
Thus  upon  the  foe  to  fall. 

Long  shall  Spain  the  day  deplore 

Dewey  ran  Corregidor. 

May  is  dancing  into  light 

As  the  Spanish  admiral 
From  a  dream  of  phantom  fight 

Wakens  at  his  sentry's  call. 
Shall  he  leave  Cavite's  lee, 
Hunt  the  Yankee  fleet  at  sea? 

O  Montojo,  to  thy  deck, 

That  to-day  shall  float  its  last ! 

Quick  !  To  quarters  !  Yonder  speck 
Grows  a  hull  of  portent  vast. 

Hither,  toward  Cavite's  lee 

Comes  the  Yankee  hunting  thee  ! 

Not  for  fear  of  hidden  mine 

Halts  our  quiet  commodore. 
He,  of  old  heroic  line, 

379 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Follows  Farragut  once  more, 
Hazards  all  on  victory, 
Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

If  he  loses,  all  is  gone ; 

He  will  win  because  he  must. 
And  the  shafts  of  yonder  dawn 

Are  not  quicker  than  his  thrust. 
Soon,  Montojo,  he  shall  be 
With  thee  in  Cavite's  lee. 

Now,  Manila,  to  the  fray ! 

Show  the  hated  Yankee  host 
This  is  not  a  holiday,  — 

Spanish  blood  is  more  than  boast. 
Fleet  and  mine  and  battery, 
Crush  him  in  Cavite's  lee ! 

Lo,  hell's  geysers  at  our  fore 

Pierce  the  plotted  path,  —  in  vain, 

Nerving  every  man  the  more 

With  the  memory  of  the  Maine! 

Now  at  last  our  guns  are  free 

Here  within  Cavite's  lee. 

"  Gridley,"  says  the  commodore, 

"  You  may  fire  when  ready."     Then 
Long  and  loud,  like  lions'  roar 

380 


DEWEY   AT   MANILA. 


When  a  rival  dares  the  den, 
Breaks  the  awful  cannonry 
Full  across  Cavite's  lee. 

Who  shall  tell  the  daring  tale 
Of  our  Thunderbolt's  attack, 

Finding,  when  the  chart  should  fail, 
By  the  lead  his  dubious  track, 

Five  ships  following  faithfully 

Five  times  o'er  Cavite's  lee ; 

Of  our  gunners'  deadly  aim  ; 

Of  the  gallant  foe  and  brave 
Who,  unconquered,  faced  with  flame, 

Seek  the  mercy  of  the  wave,  — 
Choosing  honor  in  the  sea 
Underneath  Cavite's  lee  ? 

Let  the  meed  the  victors  gain 
Be  the  measure  of  their  task. 

Less  of  flinching,  stouter  strain, 
Piercer  combat,  who  could  ask  ? 

And  "  surrender,"  —  'twas  a  word 

That  Cavite  never  heard. 

Noon,  —  the  woful  work  is  done  ! 

Not  a  Spanish  ship  remains; 
But,  of  their  eleven,  none 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Ever  was  so  truly  Spain's ! 
Which  is  prouder,  they  or  we, 
Thinking  of  Cavite's  lee  ? 

ENVOY. 

But  remember,  when  we've  ceased 
Giving  praise  and  reckoning  odds, 

Man  shares  courage  with  the  beast, 
Wisdom  cometh  from  the  gods. 

Who  would  win,  on  land  or  wave, 

Must  be  wise  as  well  as  brave. 

—  Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 


382 


AND    1562. 


1898  anb   1562. 

HP  HE  evening  and  the  morning  have  joined  in  fight 

at  last. 
Around  the  Western  islands  the  Old  shall  fight  the 

New; 

Columbia  and  Hispania,  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
And  Eighteen   Hundred  and    Ninety-eight  fights 
Fifteen  Sixty-two. 

The   Nation   of    the   Forward   Look  that   sees   the 

heights  ahead 
Fights  with  the   Backward  Glancing  Realm  that 

sees  the  tombs  behind. 
And  who  shall  doubt  the  conflict  of  the  Quick  and  of 

the  Dead,  — 
Of  the  Leaders  with  the  Laggards  of  Mankind  ? 

To-day   joins   fight   with    Yesterday ;    the  mediaeval 

years 
Are  grappling   with   the    Modern,    and    the   Old 

assails  the  New. 

But  who,  who  fears  the  issue?     Where's  the  trem- 
bling soul  that  fears 

When  Eighteen  Hundred  Ninety-eight  fights  Fif- 
teen Sixty-two  ? 

—  Sam  Walter  Foss. 

383 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


n  (American  to  f>t0 


TT\OST  thou  hear,  Columbia,  O  my  mother, 

That  pale  suppliant,  sobbing  at  thy  feet,  — 
Spat  upon,  and  stripped,  and  left  to  starve  there, 
Naked  in  the  street  ? 

With  her  feeble  strength  she  gropes  to  grasp  thee, 
But  to  touch  thy  hem,  and  rise  up  free. 

Listen  !     Shall  her  blue  lips,  drawn  with  hunger, 
Call  in  vain  on  thee  ? 

Oh,  her  white  and  branded  beauty,  mother  ! 

Oh,  her  virgin,  violated  fame  ! 
Crawling  to  thy  knees,  she  cries  in  anguish, 

"  Save  me  from  this  shame  ! 

"  By  thy  sons  that  hung  against  thy  bosom, 
Sucking  from  thy  veins  their  stalwart  breath  ; 

By  the  blood  they  spilt  to  guard  thy  honor,  — 
Save  me  from  this  death  ! 

"  By  thy  daughters'  fame,  thine  own  fair  virtue 
By  thy  motherhood,  that  all  men  know  ; 

By  the  unborn  Future  in  thy  loins,  — 
Kill  this  loathsome  foe  !  " 

384 


AN   AMERICAN   TO    HIS    MOTHER. 


Wouldst  thou  barken,  lend  thine  eyes,  stretch  hands 

of  succor  ? 

Useless !     Unless,  first,  thy  vengeance  rain 
In  a  leaden  storm  on  her  seducer. 
Strike  !  —  God  pity  Spain ! 

—  Boston  Journal. 


385 


POEMS   OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


T    REMEMBER  well  the  way 

She  looked  up  at  me  that  day 
When  I  first  put  on  the  gray, 

And  said  good-by,  back  there  in  '63. 
She  and  I  were  sweethearts  then, 
And  I  hear  her  voice  again, 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 
Saying,  in  her  gentle  way: 
"  Ah,  how  brave  you  look  in  gray, 
And  how  tall  and  handsome,  too,  — 
Gray's  the  color,  dear,  for  you  !  " 

There's  a  ragged  suit  of  gray 
She  has  long  had  laid  away,  — 

There  are  memories  that  cling  around 

it,  too ; 

But  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  at  present  I  have  on 

A  suit  of  Uncle  Sam's  beloved  blue. 

When  she  saw  me  yesterday, 
She  wiped  a  tear  away 
For  the  memory  of  the  gray,  — 
That  dear,  old,  ragged  suit  of  '63. 

386 


HIS   NEW   SUIT. 


And  she  sweetly  spoke  again,  — 
Spoke  more  fervently  than  then,  — 

As  she  nestled  up  to  me, 
Saying,  in  her  gentle  way : 
"  Ah,  how  brave  you  looked  in  gray ! 
But  you're  braver  still  in  blue,  — 
Blue's  the  color,  dear,  for  you  !  " 

—  S.  E.  Kiser. 


387 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


o  f#e  filing 

flock  of  sea  gulls,  with  huge  wings  of 
white, 

Tossed  on  the  treacherous  blue, 
Poising  your  pinions  in  majestic  flight,  — 
Our  hearts  take  voyage  with  you. 

Against  the  soulless,  unregarding  Sea 

Match  the  high  will  that  dares  ! 
Are  ye  not  driven  by  mightier  gales  than  she?  — 

Millions  of  patriot  prayers  ! 

Flock  of  the  terrible  talons  !  —  urged  by  lungs 

Monstrous  and  fury-fed  ! 
Hold  your  proud  course  till  rot  their  riotous  tongues, 

Fear-born  and  treason-bred, 

Who  at  this  late  and  ominous  hour  declaim 

The  jargon  of  the  past,  — 
Forgetful  fools,  that  Freedom,  that  great  name, 

Hath  riven  all  chains  at  last. 

God  save  us  from  war's  terrors  !     May  they  cease ! 

And  yet  one  fate  how  worse ! 
A  bloodless,  perjured,  prostituting  peace, 

Glutting  a  coward's  purse  ! 

388 


TO    THE    FLYING    SQUADRON, 


Oh,  if  yon  beaks  and  talons  clutch  and  cling 

Far  in  the  middle  seas 
With  those  of  hostile  war  birds,  wing  to  wing,  — 

Our  hearts  shall  fight  with  these. 

God  speed  you !     Never  fared  crusading  knight 

On  holier  quest  than  ye,  — 
Sworn  to  the  rescue  of  the  trampled  Right,  — 

Sworn  to  make  Cuba  free  !  — 

Yea,  swiftly  to  avenge  our  martyred  Maine. 

I  watch  you  curve  and  wheel 
In  horrible  grace  of  battle,  —  scourge  of  Spain, 

Birds  with  the  beaks  of  steel ! 


389 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


QJecompense. 


H^HEY  are  marching  from  the  Southland,  from  the 

North,  and  from  the  West, 
From   the  sunny  hills   of  vintage,  from   the  crags 

where  eagles  nest, 
From  the  altars  of  devotion,  from  a  mother's  loving 

breast, 
While  above  them  floats  Old  Glory,  boon  to  all  the 

world  oppressed. 

They  are  marching  to  the  ocean  where  the  crimsoned 

waters  cry, 
Where  the  cowards  jeered  in  anger,  laughed  to  see 

our  heroes  die, 
Little  dreaming  that  in  vengeance  God  was  watching 

from  on  high, 
That    he   heard  the  blood-stained  billows  lift  their 

voices  to  the  sky. 

There's  a  song  comes  from  the  forest,  there's  a  song 

breaks  from  the  sea, 
And   the  echoes   ring   from   heaven   in   tumultuous 

ecstasy  ; 
For  the  flag  floats  high  in  splendor,  our  old  flag  of 

liberty, 


THE    RECOMPENSE. 


Where  the   mists   of   night   are   lifting,  and  God's 
people  are  made  free. 

Oh,  be  brave,  my  heart,  with  courage,  and  my  soul, 
be  ever  strong ! 

To  the  right  or  left  turn  never,  but  press  fearlessly 
along; 

For  the  God  above  hath  vengeance,  and  shall  recom- 
pense the  wrong, 

Till   the   wrath    of   man   shall  praise  him,  and  the 
darkness  break  with  song ! 

—  Chas.  H.  Dorrie. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


QJeunifefc. 

T  'VE  been  thinkin'  of  it  over,  an'  it  'pears  to  me 

to-day 
The  war's  the  biggest  blessin'  that  has  ever  come 

our  way ; 
Course,    thar'll   be    some   fightin',    an'    a   few   more 

graves'll  be 
Whar  the  daisies  in  the  medder  look  their  purtiest 

at  me,  — 

For   that's   to   be   expected ;  but  —  the   thing   that 

makes  me  feel 
That  the  war's  a  heavenly  blessin'  is  the  wounds  that 

it'll  heal ! 
The  old  wounds  that's  been  ranklin'  sence  the  day 

that  Gin'rul  Lee 
Said   we'd   rest  an'  think  it  over  by  that  old-time 

apple-tree ! 

I  see  the  boys  that  fit  us  in  the  Union  coats  of  blue 
On  the  same  groun',  —  hale  an'  hearty,  an'  a-shakin' 

howdy-do ! 
An'   I   hear  the  ban'  play  "  Dixie,"  an'   I  see  'em 

march  away, 
Till  I  can't  tell  whar  the  blue  is,  an'  I'm  mixed  up 

on  the  gray ! 

392 


REUNITED. 


The  old  war  tunes  air  ringin',  an'  "  Dixie's  "  on  the 

rise; 
But  "  Yankee  Doodle  "  follers  'fore  it's  half-way  to 

the  skies  ! 
An'   the   old  "Star  Spangled  Banner"  is  in  ever' 

steeple's  chime, 
An'  I  tell  you,  we're  a-havin'  of  a  hallelujah  time  ! 

I'm  glad  I've  lived  to  see  it;  I'm  glad  the  time  is 

come 
When,  North  an'  South,  we  answer  to  the  roll-call  of 

the  drum  ! 
When  thar  ain't  no  line  divides  us,  but  North  an' 

South  we  stan' 
For  jest  one  common  country,  —  one  freedom-lovin* 

Ian'! 

That's  whar  the  war's  a  blessin',  that's  whar  'pears 

like  I  see 
A   brighter   mornin'   breakin'  on  the  hills  for  you 

an'  me  ! 
It's  shoulder  now  to  shoulder,  —  thar  ain't  no  blue  or 


An'  we're  shoutin'  "  Hallelujah,"  an'  we're  happy  on 
the  way  ! 

—  F.  L.  Stanton. 


393 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN   PATRIOTISM. 


44  Cut  f0e 

An  Incident  of  Cienfuegos. 

"  /^UT  the  cables  !  "  the  order  read, 

And  the  men  were  there  ;  there  was  no  delay. 
The  ships  hove  to  in  Cienfuegos  Bay,  — 

The  Window,  Nashville,  Marblehead,  — 
Beautiful,  grim,  and  alert  were  they, 
It  was  midway,  past  in  the  morning  gray. 

"  Cut  the  cables  !  "  the  order  said  — 
Over  the  clouds  of  the  dashing  spray 
The  guns  were  trained  and  ready  for  play  ; 

Picked  from  the  Nashville,  Winslow  led,  — 
Grim  death  waits  ashore,  they  say  ; 
"  Lower  the  boats,  Godspeed,  give  way." 
Did  "  our  untried  navy  lads  "  obey  ? 

Away  to  their  perilous  work  they  sped. 

Now,  steady  the  keel,  keep  stroke  the  oar  ! 

They  must  go  in  close,  they  must  find  the  wires  ; 
Grim  death  is  alert  on  that  watching  shore, 

That  deadly  shore  of  the  "  Hundred  Fires." 
In  the  lighthouse  tower,  —  along  the  ledge,  — 

In  the  blockhouse,  waiting,  —  the  guns  are  there  ; 
On  the  lowland,  too,  in  the  tall,  dry  sedge  ; 

394 


CUT   THE    CABLES.' 


They  are  holding  the  word  till  the  boats  draw 

near. 
One  hundred  feet  from  the  water's  edge, 

Dazzling  clear  is  the  sunlit  air ; 
Quick,  my  men, — the  moments  are  dear! 

Two  hundred  feet  from  the  rifle-pit, 
And  our  "  untried  "  lads  still  show  no  fear  — 

.When  they  open  now  they're  sure  to  hit ; 
No  question,  even  by  sign,  they  ask, 
In  silence  they  bend  to  their  dangerous  task. 

Quick  now !  —  the  shot  from  a  smokeless  gun 

Cuts  close  and  spatters  the  glistening  brine ; 
Now  follows  the  roar  of  the  battle  begun, 
But  the  boys  were  bent  in  the  blazing  sun 

Like  peaceful  fishermen,  "  wetting  a  line." 
They  searched  the  sea  while  a  shrieking  blast 

Swept  shoreward,  swift  as  the  lightning  flies,  — 
While  the  fan-like  storm  of  the  shells  went  past 

Like  a  death-wing  cleaving  the  hissing  skies. 
Like  a  sheltering  wing,  —  for  the  hurricane  came 

From  our  own  good  guns,  and  the  foe  might  tell 
What  wreck  was  wrought  by  their  deadly  aim ; 

For  the  foe  went  down  where  the  hurricane  fell. 
It  shattered  the  blockhouse,  levelled  the  tower, 

It  ripped  the  face  of  the  smoking  hill, 
It  beat  the  battle  back,  hour  by  hour, 

395 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


And  then,  for  a  little,  our  guns  were  still. 

For  a  little,  but  that  was  the  fatal  breath,  — 
That  moment's  lull  in  the  friendly  crash,  — 
For  the  long  pit  blazed  with  a  vicious  flash, 

And  eight  fell,  —  two  of  them  done  to  death. 

Once  more  the  screen  of  the  screaming  shot 
With  its  driving  canopy  covered  the  men, 
While  they  dragged,  and  grappled,  and,  faltering  not, 

Still  dragged,  and  searched,  and  grappled  again. 
And  they  stayed  right  there  till  the  work  was  done, 
The  cables  were  found  and  severed,  each  one, 
With  an  eighty-foot  gap,  and  the  "  piece  "  hauled  in, 
And  stowed  in  place,  —  then,  under  the  din 
Of  that  deafening  storm,  that  had  swept  the  air 
For  three  long  hours,  they  turned  from  shore 
("  Steady  the  keel "  there ;  "  stroke  "  the  oar), 
To  the  smoke-wreathed  ships,  and,  under  the  guns, 
They  went  up  the  side,  —  our  "  untried  "  ones. 

Quiet,  my  brave  boys ;  hats  off,  all ! 

They  are  here,  our  "  untried  "  boys  in  blue. 
Steady  the  block,  now,  all  hands  haul ! 

Slow  on  the  line  there !  —  look  to  that  crew  ! 
Six  lads  hurt !  —  and  the  colors  there  ? 

Wrap  two  of  them  ?  —  hold  !    Ease  back  the  bow  ! 
Slow,  now,  on  the  line  !  —  slack  down  with  care ! 

396 


CUT   THE   CABLES.' 


Steady  !  —  they're  back  on  their  own  deck  now  J 
The  cables  are  cut,  sir,  eighty-foot  spread, 
Six  boys  hurt,  and  —  two  of  them  dead. 

Half-mast  the  colors  !  there's  work  to  do ! 
There  are  two  red  marks  on  the  starboard  gun, 
There  is  still  some  work  that  is  not  quite  done, 

For  our  "  untried  "  boys  that  are  tried  and  true. 
It  wasn't  all  play  when  they  cut  the  wires, — 
Well  named  is  that  bay  of  the  "  Hundred  Fires." 
—  Robert  Burns  Wilson, 

June  2,  1898. 


397 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


"(JJlene,  (giene,  $eftef, 


TDEHOLD,  we  have  gathered  together  our  battle- 
ships, near  and  afar; 

Their  decks  they  are  cleared  for  action,  their  guns 
they  are  primed  for  war. 

From  the  East  to  the  West  there  is  hurry ;  in  the 
North  and  the  South  a  peal 

Of  hammers  in  fort  and  shipyard,  and  the  clamor 
and  clang  of  steel; 

And  the  rush  and  roar  of  engines,  and  clanking  of 
derrick  and  crane,  — 

Thou  art  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found  wanting, 
the  balance  of  God,  O  Spain! 

Behold,  I  have  stood  on  the  mountains,  and  this  was 
writ  in  the  sky : 

"  She  is  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found  wanting,  the 
balance  God  holds  on  high  !  " 

The  balance  he  once  weighed  Babylon,  the  Mother  of 
Harlots,  in. 

One  scale  holds  thy  pride  and  power  and  empire,  be- 
gotten of  sin, 

Heavy  with  woe  and  torture,  the  crimes  of  a  thou- 
sand years, 

398 


"MENE,    MENE,   TEKEL,   UPHARSIN." 


Mortared  and  welded  together  with  fire  and  blood 

and  tears; 
In  the  other,  for  justice  and  mercy,  a  blade  with 

never  a  stain, 
Is  laid  the  Sword  of  Liberty,  and  the  balance  dips, 

O  Spain! 

Summon  thy  vessels  together !  great  is  thy  need  for 

these ! 
Cristobal  Colon,  Vizcaya,  Oquendo,  and  Marie  The- 

rese. 
Let  them  be  strong  and  many,  for  a  vision  I  had  by 

night, 
That  the  ancient  wrongs  thou  hast  done  the  world 

came  howling  to  the  fight; 
From  the  New  World  shores  they  gathered.    Inca  and 

Aztec,  slain, 
To  the  Cuban  shot  but  yesterday,  and  our  own  dead 

seamen,  Spain! 

Summon  thy  ships  together,  gather  a  mighty  fleet ! 

For  a  strong  young  nation  is  arming  that  never  hath 
known  defeat. 

Summon  thy  ships  together,  there  on  thy  blood- 
stained sands! 

For  a  shadowy  army  gathers  with  manacled  feet  and 
hands, 

399 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

A  shadowy  host  of  sorrows  and  of  shames,  too  black 

to  tell, 
That  reach  with  their  horrible  wounds  for  thee  to 

drag  thee  down  to  hell; 
Myriad  phantoms  and  spectres,  thou  warrest  against 

in  vain ! 
Thou  art  weighed  in  the  scales  and  found  wanting, 

the  balance  of  God,  O  Spain! 

—  Madison  Cauuein. 


400 


FALL    IN  I 


3n! 

"T*IS  no  time  for  vain  surmising; 

Fall  in ! 
While  the  din  of  war  is  rising ; 

Fall  in  ! 

See  the  cloud  of  conflict  falling, 
Though  the  danger  is  appalling  ; 
Hark !  your  country's  voice  is  calling 

Fall  in ! 

Past,  the  time  for  speculation ; 

Fall  in ! 
Peril  menaces  the  nation ; 

Fall  in ! 

Leave  to  cravens  idle  prattle  ; 
Empty  vessels  loudest  rattle  ! 
Trusting  in  the  God  of  battle ; 

Fall  in  ! 

Waste  no  precious  time  in  trifles ; 

Fall  in! 
Drop  all  else  and  grasp  your  rifles ; 

Fall  in  ! 

Lay  your  lives  on  country's  altar, 
Cursed  the  craven  who  would  falter, 
For  the  traitor's  neck  the  halter  ! 

Fall  in ! 

401 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Son  and  sire  and  grandsire  hoary, 

Fall  in ! 
Insult  stains  our  grand  "  Old  Glory ! " 

Fall  in! 

By  our  tars  'neath  ocean  sleeping, 
Billowy  mounds  above  them  heaping, 
By  the  tears  their  loved  are  weeping, 

Fall  in ! 

Spirit  of  the  Revolution  ! 

Fall  in  ! 
Reinforce  our  resolution ; 

Fall  in ! 

North  and  South  now  reunited, 
Union's  covenant  replighted, 
Fire  on  Freedom's  shrine  relighted ! 

Fall  in ! 

—  Frank  N.  Scott. 


402 


THE   OLD   ARTILLERIST. 


T_T  E  never  has  talked  of  the  war-time  and  battle, 

He  gives  himself  wholly  to  peace  and  its  ways 
And  he  loves  his  small  fields  and  his  horses  and 

cattle, 

And  the  smell  of  the  corn  fields  through  long  sum- 
mer days. 
It  seems  like  a  dream  in  his  calm  daily  labors, 

That  once  he  fought  fiercely  where  swift  bullets 

smote, 

But  always  on  Sundays  at  church  with  his  neighbors 
A  little  bronze  button  is  worn  on  his  coat. 

The  sixties  had  found  him  where  bugles  rang  charges, 

Where  over  the  batteries  the  cavalry  rode, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  guns  hung  along  the  field's 
marges 

As  hotly  the  battle's  tide  eddying  flowed. 
His  boy's  heart  had  thrilled  at  the  reverberation, 

As,  plying  the  sponge  or  the  lanyard,  he  toiled ; 
His  smoke-stifled  throat  throbbed  with  fierce  exultation 

The  while  he  stood  by  till  the  piece  had  recoiled. 

But  now  !  —  not  a  word  of  the  war-time  and  battle, 
No  tales  of  the  conflict  the  veteran  will  tell ; 

403 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


He's  at  peace  in  his  fields  with  his  horses  and  cattle, 

Who  once  had  been  rained  on  by  bullet  and  shell. 

But  he  chuckles,  thgse  days,  as  he  plods  at  his  labors, 

Because  his  two  boys  have  enlisted,  and  he 
Walks    straighter    and   prouder   when   passing   the 

neighbors, 
For  Bill  is  with  Dewey  and  Jim  is  with  Lee ! 

—  Meredith  Nicholson. 


404 


GREETING   FROM   ENGLAND. 


<Breefin0  from  (Engfcmb. 

A  MERICA  !  dear  brother  land  ! 

While  yet  the  shotted  guns  are  mute, 
Accept  a  brotherly  salute, 
A  hearty  grip  of  England's  hand. 

To-morrow,  when  the  sulphurous  glow 
Of  war  shall  dim  the  stars  above, 
Be  sure  the  star  of  England's  love 

Is  over  you,  come  weal  or  woe. 

Go  forth  in  hope  !     Go  forth  in  might ! 
To  all  your  nobler  self  be  true, 
That  coming  times  may  see  in  you 

The  vanguard  of  the  hosts  of  light. 

Though  wrathful  justice  load  and  train 
Your  guns,  be  every  breach  they  make 
A  gateway  pierced  for  mercy's  sake 

That  peace  may  enter  in  and  reign. 

Then,  should  the  hosts  of  darkness  band 
Against  you,  lowering  thunderously, 
Flash  the  word  "  Brother  "  o'er  the  sea, 

And  England  at  your  side  shall  stand, 


405 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

Exulting !     For,  though  dark  the  night 
And  sinister  with  scud  and  rack, 
The  hour  that  brings  us  back  to  back 

But  harbingers  the  larger  light. 

April  22.,  1898.  — London  Chronicle. 


406 


HOBSON   AND    HIS    MEN. 


Jgofteon  an&  3E>t0  (gften, 

/^N  the  girdling  circuit, 

Under  sundered  seas, 
Over  dale  and  mountain, 

Caught  by  ev'ry  breeze, 
Glory  sends  a  message 

(Cipherless  her  pen) 
That  the  world  is  cheering 

Hobson  and  his  men ! 

CHORUS. 

Eight  against  the  fleet  and  forts, 
A  brook  against  a  sea ! 

But  Santiago's  door  is  shut 
And  Hobson  turned  the  key  ! 

Moon  behind  a  cloud-bank, 

Fickle  Cuban  sky, 
Hobson  and  his  seven  tars 

Steaming  boldly  by ! 
Phillips,  Murphy,  Deignan, 

Clausen  and  Charette, 
Montagu  and  Kelly, 

Not  a  man  forget !  —  CHO. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


Right  athwart  the  channel, — 

Hobson's  heart  the  guide,  — 
Swung  the  bulky  collier 

Hinged  upon  the  tide. 
Growled  the  guns  of  Spaniards, 

Growled  from  either  shore  ; 
But,  his  sea  legs  keeping, 

Hobson  hung  his  door  !  —  CHO. 

Soon  shall  legions  thunder, 

Cannoned  mountains  rock, 
And  that  door  swing  open 

Wide  at  Freedom's  knock  ! 
High  at  Santiago 

Rear  a  column  then, 
Bidding  Time  remember 

Hobson  and  his  men  !  —  CHO. 

—  Edward  F.  Burns. 


408 


PRAYER   FOR  THE   NATION. 


for  t$e  (Nation. 


JUDGE  of  the  earth,  to  whom 
The  secret  things  are  known, 
Lo,  in  this  hour  of  gloom, 

We  come  before  thy  throne. 
The  knees  of  Freedom's  sons  are  bent 

To  none,  O  Lord,  but  thee  ; 
Before  thy  altar  we  present 
Our  motive  and  our  plea. 

Thou  knowest  all  the  cause,  — 

The  crime  and  insult  both,  — 
Long  have  we  taken  pause, 

And  even  now  are  loth 
To  strike  the  blow,  —  yet  Honor  calls, 

Her  summons  we  obey  ; 
Fit  mate  were  he  for  knaves  and  thralls 

Who  yet  would  urge  delay. 

Not  for  ourselves  we  try 

The  final  test  of  war,  — 
A  tortured  people  cry 

For  succor  from  afar  ; 
Before  the  bar  of  Liberty 

Stands  Tyranny  arraigned  : 

409 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


The  cup  she  mixed  of  misery 
Shall  by  herself  be  drained. 

If  with  a  hand  unclean 

We  wrongly  draw  the  sword, 
We  pray  thee  intervene 

To  make  our  cause  abhorred. 
We  would  not  dim  a  history 

In  honor  clear  begun. 
We  crave,  O  Lord,  no  victory 

That  is  not  justly  won. 

Let  other  nations  sneer ; 

Accountable  alone 
To  thee,  O  Lord,  we  fear 

No  censure  save  thine  own. 
The  Powers  of  earth  are  in  thy  sight 

A  pageant  and  a  dream ; 
Thou  ever  art  of  Truth  and  Right 

The  arbiter  supreme. 


The  trumpet  calls  us  forth  ; 

The  fateful  guns  are  trained ; 
Oh,  may  we  prove  our  worth, 

Our  honor  keep  unstained  ! 

410 


PRAYER    FOR   THE    NATION. 

We  lift  the  gage ;  the  issue  stands 

For  innocence  or  guilt ; 
Our  cause  we  place  within  thy  hands,  — 

Deal  with  us  as  thou  wilt. 

—  Boston  Transcript. 


411 


POEMS    OF   AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 


of  f0e  Sfeei 


fleets  have  sailed  from   Spain.      The  one 
would  seek 

What  lands  uncharted  ocean  might  conceal. 
Despised,  condemned,  and  pitifully  weak, 
It  found  a  world  for  Leon  and  Castile. 

The  other,  mighty,  arrogant,  and  vain, 
Sought  to  subdue  a  people  who  were  free. 
Ask  of  the  storm-gods  where  its  galleons  be,  — 

Whelmed  'neath  the  billows  of  the  northern  main  ! 

A  third  is  threatened.     On  the  westward  track, 
Once  gloriously  traced,  its  vessels  speed, 

With  gold  and  crimson  battle-flags  unfurled. 
On  Colon's  course,  but  to  Sidonia's  wrack, 
Sure  fated,  if  so  need  shall  come  to  need, 

For  sons  of  Drake  are  lords  of  Colon's  world. 
—  The  New  York  Tribune. 


412 


EIGHT   VOLUNTEERS. 


<&\<$t  tyofunfeers. 

volunteers!  on  an  errand  of  death  ! 
Eight  men  !     Who  speaks  ? 
Eight  men  to  go  where  the  cannon's  hot  breath 

Burns  black  the  cheeks. 
Eight  men  to  man  the  old  Merrimac's  hulk  ; 
Eight  men  to  sink  the  old  steamer's  black  bulk, 
Blockade  the  channel  where  Spanish  ships  skulk, 
Eight  men !     Who  speaks  ? 

"  Eight  volunteers  !  "  said  the  Admiral's  flags ! 

Eight  men!     Who  speaks? 
Who  will  sail  under  El  Morro's  black  crags  ?  — 

Sure  death  he  seeks. 
Who  is  there  willing  to  offer  his  life  ? 
Willing  to  march  to  this  music  of  strife,  — 
Cannon  for  drum  and  torpedo  for  fife  ? 

Eight  men  !     Who  speaks  ? 

Eight  volunteers  !  on  an  errand  of  death  ! 

Eight  men  !     Who  speaks  ? 
Was  there  a  man  who  in  fear  held  his  breath  ? 

With  fear-paled  cheeks  ? 


POEMS    OF  AMERICAN    PATRIOTISM. 

From  ev'ry  war-ship  ascended  a  cheer ! 
From  ev'ry  sailor's  lips  burst  the  word  "  Here  !  " 
Four  thousand  heroes  their  lives  volunteer ! 
Eight  men !     Who  speaks  ? 

—  Lansing  C.  Bailey. 


414 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 


A  cheer  and  salute  for  the  admiral,  and  here's,  etc.  367 
"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say           .         .180 

America !  dear  brother  land !     .         .        .         .         .  405 

And  they  have  thrust  our  shattered  dead  away,  etc.  305 

Are  you  ready,  O  Virginia 297 

As  it  began  to  dawn,  you  know        ....  248 

A  song  for  them  one  and  all 291 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay        .         .         .  137 

"  At  dawn,"  he  said,  "  I  bid  them  all  farewell "         .  44 

A  Yankee  ship  and  a  Yankee  crew  ....  93 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down     ....  83 

Behold,  we  have  gathered  together,  etc.    .         .         .  398 

Brave  hearts,  still'd  on  the  Maine,  a  last  good  night  I  317 

Bravo,  Jonathan  !  Now's  your  time  ....  253 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys  !  we'll  sing,  etc.         .  1 59 

Britannia's  gallant  streamers ^88 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 148 

Can  you  see  her,  O  my  brother  ?  240 
Close  his  eyes,  his  work  is  done  1       .        .        .        .12 

Columbia  beside  the  ocean  stands    ....  338 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise  ....  73 

415 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

Comes  a  cry  from  Cuban  water  .  .  .  .  335 
"  Corporal  Green  I"  the  orderly  cried  .  .  .133 
"  Cut  the  cables  !  "  the  order  read  ....  394 

Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even 207 

Dearest  love,  do  you  remember  .  .  .  .142 
Death  came  out  of  the  black  night's  deep  .  .221 
Don't  you  hear  the  tramp  of  soldiers  ?  .  .  .315 
Dost  thou  hear,  Columbia,  O  my  mother.  .  .  384 
Eight  volunteers  !  on  an  errand  of  death  1  .  .413 

Farragut,  Farragut 172 

Fierce  flock  of  sea  gulls,  with  huge  wings  of  white  388 
From  Cuban  shores  in  ceaseless  pain  .  .  .  300 
From  shuddering  trees  the  painted  leaves  .  .314 
From  the  Rio  Grande's  waters  to  the  icy  lakes,  etc.  104 
Give  the  speedway  to  the  cruiser  .  .  .  51 

Hail,  Columbia  !  happy  land ! 79 

Hail,  son  of  peak  and  prairie 6 

Hark!  I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands  .  .  .135 
Hark  1  the  rattling  roar  of  the  musketeers  .  .  205 

Hats  off  I 45 

Haul  in  der  plank,  full  speed  ahead ....  284 
Have  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell  .  .175 
Help  us  to  win,  O  Lord,  on  sea  and  land.  .  .  353 
He  never  has  talked  of  the  war-time  and  battle  .  403 
He  took  a  thousand  islands  and  he  didn't  lose,  etc.  370 
High  on  the  world  did  our  fathers  of  old  .  .  246 
Hurrah  I  boys,  hurrah  1  fling  our  banner  to  the,  etc.  140 
I  am  the  king  of  strife  and  calm  ....  358 
I  am  War.  The  upturned  eyeballs  of  piled  dead,  etc.  23 
Iberian!  palter  no  more  I  By  thine  hands  .  .225 

416 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

I  fought  under  Lee  and  Stonewall    ....  365 

I  hear  the  sound  at  midnight  of  the  tramp  of,  etc.  242 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 170 

In  a  glittering  glory  of  diamond  dew         ...  20 

In  battle-line  of  sombre  gray 327 

In  slumber  as  the  morning  broke      ....  329 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 70 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit 144 

Into  a  ward  of  the  whitewashed  walls       ...  29 

I  remember  well  the  way 386 

It  is  good-by 126 

It  whizzed  and  whistled  along  the  blurred         .         .  41 

I've  been  thinkin'  of  it  over,  an'  it  'pears  to  me,  etc.  392 

Judge  of  the  earth,  to  whom 409 

Knight  of  the  Eastern  seas,  thy  fadeless  fame           .  342 

Land  of  languor  and  of  beauty,  where  the  tawny,  etc.  231 

Let  Tyranny  tremble  and  Cowardice  quake      .         .  301 

Lights  out  I  and  a  prow  turned  towards  the  South,  360 

Mated  to  the  Millennium,  —  Time's  last  heir    .         .  39 

Men  of  the  North  and  West 122 

Mind  of  man,  what  have  you  wrought  ?     .         .         -47 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of,  etc.  163 

Mother  of  Swords  1  While  the  river  runs  ...  14 

My  brother  Jim,  he's  in  the  regiment,  an'  he,    .         .  262 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee I 

No  more,  no  more  shall  come  the  brave   .         .        .217 

No  more  words 124 

No  precedent,  ye  say 245 

Now  it's  hail  to  the  commander        ....  318 

O  Captain  1  my  Captain  1  our  fearful  trip  is  done     .  161 

4*7 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

O  Columbia,  the  gem  of  the  ocean  ....  4 
O'er  thy  purple  hills,  O  Cuba  I  ....  226 

O  fairest  of  the  blue  Antilles 347 

Off  with  your  hat  as  the  flag  goes  by  1  .  .  .  22 
O  God  of  Battles,  who  art  still  .  .  .  .213 
O  God  of  hosts,  whose  mighty  hand  .  .  .321 
O  God!  that  I  might  breathe  of  Freedom's  air  .  230 
Oh,  Johnny  Bull  1  you  know,  John  .  .  .  .251 
Oh,  rise  up  in  your  glorious  might  ....  292 
Oh,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light  .  85 
Oh,  the  roses  we  plucked  for  the  blue  .  .  .  374 
Oh,  they  sang  a  song  of  Wind  and  Sail  57 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Sam,"  they  said,  "  has  grown  fat,"  etc.  345 
Oh,  we  met  the  Spanish  squadron  ....  294 
On  history's  crimson  pages,  high  up  on  the  roll,  etc.  16 
On  the  sunny  hillside  sleeping  .  .  .  .257 

On  the  girdling  circuit 407 

On  wings  of  glory,  swift  as  light         .         .        .  91 

O  star-spangled  banner  !  the  flag  of  our  pride!  .  128 
Our  band  is  few,  but  tried  and  true  ...  76 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air  .  .  .199 
Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass  .  .  .190 
"  Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot"  .  .  .  .168 
Roll  a  river  wide  and  strong  37 

Santa  Ana  came  storming,  as  a  storm  might  come  .  99 
Says  Stonewall  Jackson  to  "  Little  Phil :  "  etc.  .  349 
Shall  we  send  back  the  Johnnies  their  bunting  .  308 
She  glided  on  her  peaceful  quest  ....  323 
She  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion,  etc.  .  119 
She  is  fighting  for  her  freedom,  striving  hard,  etc.  228 

418 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

She  is  old,  and  bent,  and  wrinkled  .  .  .  .201 
She's  a  floating  boiler,  crammed  with  fire,  etc.  .  34 
She's  up  there, —  Old  Glory,  —  where  lightning,  etc.  36 
She  was  no  armored  cruiser  of  twice  six,  etc.  .  .  31 
Sing,  bird,  on  green  Missouri's  plain  .  .  .165 
Smooth  and  lean,  —  they  have  stripped  her  clean  .  239 
So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey  .  .  182 
Spain's  hour  has  struck.  No  more  her  flag  .  .  376 
Stand  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  I  65 

Strike  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  ! 267 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard  ....  185 
The  army  is  gathering  from  near  and  from  far  .  146 
The  band  was  playing  "  Dixie  "  when  he  marched,  etc.  269 
The  evening  and  the  morning  have  joined,  etc.  .  383 
The  first  great  fight  of  the  war  is  fought !  .  .  351 
The  four-way  winds  of  the  world  have  blown  .  .281 
The  lioness  whelped,  and  the  sturdy  cub  .  .  .  327 
The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior's  sash  18 

The  man  who  wears  the  shoulder-straps  ...  49 
The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat  .  .  .112 
The  old  flag  is  a-doin'  of  her  very  level  best  .  .270 
The  phantom  sea  serenely  blue  ....  276 
The  poplar  drops  beside  the  way  .  .  .  .130 
There  has  been  a  heap  of  rubbish  dumped,  etc.  .  273 

The  sun  had  set 154 

The  war-path  is  true  and  straight  .  .  .  .331 
They  are  camped  on  Chickamauga  I  .  .  .312 
They  are  marching  from  the  Southland,  etc.  .  .  390 
They  are  not  dead  whose  names  we  breathe  .  .  278 
They've  named  a  cruiser  "  Dixie,"  —  that's  what,  etc.  325 

419 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

This  one  fought  with  Jackson,  and  faced,  etc.  .  215 
Times  is  mighty  dull  at  Squawville  .  .  .  -259 
'Tis  no  time  for  vain  surmising  o  .  .  .401 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 67 

To  the  men  who  fought  with  Decatur       .        .        .  302 

'Twas  the  very  verge  of  May 378 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain     .         .         .        .  193 

Two  fleets  have  sailed  from  Spain.    The  one,  etc.    .  412 

Uncover  to  the  flag ;  bare  head        ....  363 

Unravel  all  your  tangled  cheats  xv 
Up  from  the  south,  at  break  of  day  .  .  .  .187 

Up  with  the  banner  of  the  free !         .         .         .        .  10 

War  is  coming  !     Blood  must  flow !  .         .         .         .  27 1 

We  are  coming,  Cuba,  —  coming ;  our  starry,  etc.    .  234 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abraham,  three  hundred,  etc.  197 

We  are  not  a  warlike  nation ;  here  of  old  our,  etc.   .  286 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood        .         .         .  102 

We  heard  the  music  ringing  from  camps  of  long  ago .  236 

We  may  not  know 304 

We're  faring  with  the  fleet 344 

What  is  the  voice  I  hear  ? 310 

What  is  this  thunder  music  from  the  other  side,  etc.  337 

When  he  heerd  the  battle-cry 355 

When  the  blue-black  waves  are  tipped  with  white    .  26 

When  the  diplomats  cease  from  their  capers     .        .  42 

When  the  opulence  of  summer  unto  wood,  etc.         .  151 

When  the  vengeance  wakes,  when  the  battle  breaks  219 

Where  is  the  heart  of  a  soldier          ....  55 

Where  is  the  heritage  that  once  was  Spain's    .         .  307 

Yes,  we'll  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  we'll  rally,  etc.  203 

420 


INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

Yes,  we  marched  in  the  ranks  to  the  station     .  .     340 

You  have  called  to  me,  my  brothers,  from,  etc.  .     264 

You  may  take  the  thirteen-inchers    .         .        .  .222 

Youngest  descendant  of  a  glorious  line    .        .  .     343 


421 


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